


dead on arrival

by florairmatylee



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Lance is friendly and Keith is angst, Lotor may or may not be a dick i haven't decided, M/M, together they're gonna take down the Galra mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18122672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florairmatylee/pseuds/florairmatylee
Summary: Lance is 99% sure that he will kill Keith Kogane given the chance, but when Allura assigns him to an undercover Blade of Marmora operation, they're going to have to put their differences aside and work together to bring down the Galra empire."Who are you?" Keith hisses, through gritted teeth."Lance McClain," Lance repeats, and outstretches his hand for the third time, yet mockingly. "Operative of Voltron. Here to help."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for Voltron and also the first time I've tried writing in..yikes. Almost three years? So if it's not the best, I'm out of practice and kinda wanted a place to put the brainchild of a plot I've been working on for the past few weeks. this is probably, like, full of mistakes lol. Also in this story Allura will be alive! She will absolutely not be dead; as for Lotor I haven't made up my mind. Generally I'm modernizing/putting a twist on the events of Voltron in this modern AU where the Galra are a mafia that run shady drug deals and Voltron is an undercover government agency run by Allura and Coran. Mostly backstory this time around!

There are bags under Pidge Holt's eyes and a disgustingly bitter cup of coffee in her hands, Lance notices, when he slips the green plaid-patterned mug out from her gloved fingers and takes a swing. 

" _Pidge_!" he whines, spluttering, as he swallows the horrendous sip of liquid, burning off his taste buds in the process. "What the fuck?" 

Pidge shrugs her small shoulders and doesn't even have the energy to shoot him a shit-eating smirk, apparently, because she only yawns and pushes her glasses up her nose. "I've been here all night. Didn't sleep. Fun times." She takes a long drink of the coffee she snatches back, unfazed at the temperature or the second-degree burns she's possibly inflicting on her gums. 

"Yeah, no shit." Lance probes at his tongue and wonders if it's bleeding, idly, before he reaches for an empty mug and the pot of coffee. "Why didn't your brother pester you into getting some sleep?" 

Pidge gives another yawn. "I tazed him. Now he's passed out. But he'll be fine." 

She leaves this perplexing statement hanging in the air with absolutely no context as she dutifully changes the subject to inform Lance, who's struggling to connect the dots, "By the way, you're late. It's seven thirty and Allura's been expecting you since fifteen past." 

Lance, who's already begun to pour copious amounts of sugar into the awful instant dark roast, groans. " _Already_? Geez, she works fast." 

"She's been pacing around in her office for an hour. Probably stressed out. If I were you I'd get a move on." Pidge no longer lacks the energy to smirk as she has her usual shitty holier-than-thou attitude fully equipped. Lance frowns. 

"I hate you," he informs her, to which she raises her mug in a half-mocking salute. 

"If you see Matt," Pidge responds as her parting message, "You didn't see me, I was never here." She slides off the countertop and slinks away with her gross coffee and lack of sleep, and Lance wonders if he should tell her that her hair is sticking straight off the back of her neck. Ultimately he doesn't, because...Pidge probably knows and doesn't care, really. 

He takes his coffee and ventures out of the staff break area towards Allura's office. It's not easy to miss as he exits- her office doors are ten feet tall and made of translucent crystal, with her family name engraved onto a golden plaque resting in its own glass case on the wall. Extravagant, but fitting. She  _is_  royalty. Lance has already tried his shot at throwing her one-too-many winks and enough cheesy pick-up lines relating to her heritage that never end well. Specifically, they've all ended in his immediate dismissal and a glare from her security personnel, but Lance likes to think that she's playing hard-to-get and respecting their professional work relationship too much to pursue her obvious romantic interest in him, which is admirable. 

The doors swing open upon arrival without Lance even bothering to press his handprint to the DNA sensor located just to the left, which means that Allura has certainly been expecting him. Which isn't good. She's probably pissed off, anxious, or a mixture of both. 

"...it's a risk. A high risk, Princess. I can't fully support this decision with a clear conscience." 

Lance takes as large a gulp of his coffee as possible when he recognizes the borderline Australian accent of Allura's omnipresent main advisor Coran...Coran is one of the only people Allura wholeheartedly trusts and if she's running ideas by him, it means that it's something very, very questionable either in terms of safety or morality. Which admittedly makes it more intriguing. 

The woman of the hour is, sure enough, pacing as Pidge had guessed, the click-clack of her sensible pastel pink mules sounding louder than the general din of her side conversation with Coran. It clashes colorfully with the salmon pink of her pressed blazer, but not in a bad way. The myriad of pinks really suits the white curls cascading down her back- she's a vision in pink... Oh, but Lance is getting distracted again. He can't be ogling his boss right now, so he takes another gulp of coffee in an attempt to fully wake up. It helps somewhat.

"We don't have any other  _choice_ , Coran." She's frustrated, and the pacing abruptly stops. Now her manicured fingertips are drumming on the tabletop of her mahogany desk and her right foot tap, tap, taps on the tile. "This could be the only chance we have to get close enough to them. We need to explore all our available options and this might be the best one."   


“But the risk,” Coran argues. “If this plan fails, then Voltron falls. We can’t trust him.” 

“I don’t trust him. I won’t trust him.” Allura spins so her back is to Coran and Lance can no longer see the fierce determination in her eyes. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it was the right thing to do.” 

Coran pinches one edge of his mustache in between his thumb and forefinger, fiddling with it before softly replying, “I worry that your emotions are clouding your judgement, princess.” 

Lance can see how Allura’s stern head droops just a little, perhaps in defeat or in acknowledgement, before she stands up straighter and clasps her hands behind her back. “My father would advise me against such a task, of that I am sure,” she admits. She turns back around to look at Coran, almost pleadingly. “But the loss of my father- the loss of my people- is no longer confined to the defunct precinct of Altea. Hundreds, thousands, more perish under Galra rule. If Zarkon falls, so does the empire.” 

Coran sighs. “Stubborn as always,” he notes, a bit fondly as he surveys Allura’s confident stance, his solemn mustache twitching in a smile. “As you wish. I trust you, princess, and trust that you’ve chosen the right operative for this mission.” 

“Of course I have. There he is.” Allura’s eyes roam the room to set themselves onto Lance, with a pleased almost-smile on her lips which Lance will gladly take as a good thing. 

“Princess,” Lance greets her with a wink and finger guns. Coran looks less than accepting of such a gesture, evidently by the forced smile now gracing his grimace. 

"Ah," Coran says, a bit pained. "This..is the operative you've chosen." 

“Operative,” Allura acknowledges Lance as a reply, and gestures to the seat- she doesn't look as charmed as Lance had hoped by the finger guns but she's not actively rejecting his advances, which, he'll take. “Please. We have much to attend to.” 

Lance does as she asks and discards his coffee mug to the side. “How can I help you?" 

"I have a mission for you. Something- out of the ordinary," Allura says, the last bit just somewhat reluctantly. "I'm sure that you understand that when I say this to you, that is entrusted to your knowledge and yours alone." 

"A kinda exclusive mission no one else can know about. Gotcha." Lance throws another wink her way. 

Lance has never seen Allura look nervous before, but the reluctance in her stance makes it the first time he's ever seen her look less than polished, even as her appearance gives off a facade of professionalism that Lance has always assumed was never faked. The seriousness of the situation has him paying perfect attention, all coquettish expressions gone. 

Allura looks him right in the eyes, no longer reluctant and she demands, "As a paladin of Voltron you acknowledge that what I am about to say does not leave my office, or Voltron. I ask one thing of you-" 

"Woah, what about the rest of us?" Pidge's disembodied voice rings out over the central communication speakers. "Don't we get to know about this?" 

"Number five!" Coran yells out, scandalized, as Allura stops mid-rant and takes a long, deep breath that's likely intended to calm her nerves so she won't murder Pidge. "What did I tell you about listening in on conversations?" 

Lance looks up at the ceiling speaker situated right above his head just as Pidge responds, "To tell you how to do it?" 

"Paladin," Allura says, with as much dignity as she can, "All Voltron operatives will be informed in due time. If you please, disconnect your listening hardware." 

"Roger that," Pidge says, and the communication line goes silent. Allura rubs at her furrowed brow in exasperation.

"What a menace," Lance notes. 

"If she wasn't quite talented, I'd have sacked her by now," Allura grumbles, half to herself. "Coran, please do me a favor and revoke Pidge's high-level security clearance."

"You know she'll have access to the files before lunch, right?" Lance asks.

Allura doesn't give him her usual side-eye glare, so Lance considers this a positive. "Very well. I suppose the entirety of Voltron will be made aware of my intentions, but at the present, I would prefer for this conversation to remain in between us."

The coquettish grin makes it way back onto Lance's face. "Of course," he says, "Just between the two of us. How romantic."

Coran coughs. "Ahem," he says, the annoyance present in his stare.

"And, Coran," Lance adds, notably less enthusiastic.

Allura looks at her desk. "Lance," she says, "Please understand that I would not ask this of you if I did not think that you were not suited for it. You have proven yourself time and time again as Voltron's resident sharpshooter, and with that, I present you with this assignment."

Lance receives the file, his eyes barely scanning over the tablet surface before it blinks to life, demonstrating rolling sentences of words as it receives his DNA signature. The sensitive information flashes red in compliance with policy, displaying the usual self-destruction warning if the tablet is taken off the premises, and Lance only has to read two sentences before his jaw is hanging open.

"Allura," he says, almost in awe, "This is-"

"I have the upmost faith in you, operative," Allura replies, firmly, and then adds on a lovely smile. It's distracting. "Good luck."

Well, when she's smiling like sunshine itself, how can Lance say no?

 

* * *

 

"Keith."

His fists are cracked open, scabbed blood over his knuckles, his eyes closed, gritting his teeth at each hit he can get onto the worn vinyl punching bag. The annoying voice that won't leave him alone persists- but Takashi Shirogane has never known personal boundaries. He'll stay at Keith's side no matter what, even if Keith has purposefully made his way into a nondescript boxing gym with the sole intent of avoiding Shiro's usual firm and usually disappointed stare.

" _Keith_."

Said more urgently. Keith wipes at the sweat pouring off his forehead before hitting the punching bag with renewed fervor, the thunk of his fists echoing in the otherwise silent gym. The over exertion threatens his aching shoulders, but the burn is welcomed; Keith thinks he might never want to stop.

"Keith!"

Shiro's prosthetic arm reaches out and grasps onto the base of the punching bag, effectively stilling it in one place and Keith's bloodied hands drop in defeat.

Keith throws him a rivaling glare. "What?" he snarks, challengingly. He wonders what Shiro will bring up first. His injury, maybe, or the fact that he's been awol for six days, or even just that he's neglected to tell Shiro where he went off to. The possibilities are endless, but Keith also expects that Shiro will be lecturing him on all aforementioned points.

Shiro is glaring at him. Disappointed, of course. That's to be expected. Keith rolls his eyes and grabs his abandoned water bottle and gulps down at least a quart before Shiro says anything.

"You can't keep doing this, Keith," Shiro implores. "You're going to-"

"-kill yourself," Keith finishes, dryly. "Is that what you meant? Thanks for the concern, Shiro."

"You don't have to be so fucking sarcastic," Shiro snaps. Keith rolls his eyes again, unwrapping the gauze from his hands, as he turns his back on Shiro's imposing figure, just because he's already well aware of what Shiro looks like even if he's not looking-Shiro, who's standing with his arms crossed and his wide stance- the image is burned on his retinas and Keith doesn't think he's able to face his anger just yet.

"You're not my mother," Keith bites back, over his shoulder, "So do me a favor and stop acting like it."

Shiro sighs. Keith imagines Shiro closing his eyes and giving one long exhale. "Keith, please. I'm worried about you."

"I didn't _ask_ you to be." _Hypocrite_ , _hypocrite_ , _hypocrite_ , is what he wants to scream out, but he won't. Keith won't turn this lecture on Shiro no matter how much he wants to. "I'm fine, okay? I'm fine. Thanks."

Shiro steps into Keith's line of vision. "And your hands?"

"They'll  _heal_ ," Keith replies, flippantly, which only makes Shiro frown, and great, there he is again, standing right in front of Keith. "You should see the other guy," he adds belatedly, with just a tinge of humor. Shiro's frown doesn't waver. 

"I  _did_  see him, Keith- he's dead," Shiro says, curtly. 

Keith's small smile falls. "You're not  _accusing_  me of-"

"Of course not." Shiro's glare softens, and it's almost an apology. "Zarkon's men got to him. But he's dead because they suspected he was a Blade of Marmora spy." 

Keith takes a deep breath. "If you're just here to tell me to quit the Blade, you're out of your mind." 

"I'm not here specifically for that, though it is a topic I'd like to discuss with you," Shiro says, with an arched eyebrow. "You know what they're saying on the street. There's all sorts of rumors. Talks of mutiny." 

"And they're just that. Rumors." Keith looks Shiro square in the eye and inquires, "How's Haggar doing?"

Shiro scowls. "That's not fair." 

"Oh, I see, you can just waltz right in and lecture when I'm fighting but you'll be a damn puppet for the Galra leader's right hand-"

"That is  _not_  what I'm doing," Shiro vehemently denies. "You know I'm not part of the Galra. I'm doing what I have to to survive." 

"Yeah. Sure." Keith grasps onto his discarded jacket thrown on the floor, as well as his water bottle and bloodied wrappings, debating tossing them in the communal trashcan but deciding that's the best way to get a sanitary regulations warning. "Is that it? You can yell at me some more later, I have to get going. Ulaz is expecting me." 

"I'm not  _yelling_  at you-think about it, Keith," Shiro implores. "The Galra are doing their best to weed out Marmora spies. I don't want you to-"

"Die?" Keith opens the back door of the gym with another sarcastic grin, jacket slung over his shoulders, with his belongings cradled in his arms. "Don't worry. I'll try not to, but no promises." 

"Kei-"

He slams the door hard and doesn't bother locking up, as the setting sun glows a deep red-orange in the dusk sky. It's later than he anticipated. He hadn't expected to spend so much time at the gym, and almost wishes that he hadn't now that he pictures Ulaz. The Blade of Marmora's leader is as stern as Shiro, but lacks the actual emotion to seem as if he cares about Keith's wellbeing. He picks up his pace anyway, going into a smooth jog, sneakers hitting cracked pavement with more frustration that he hadn't been able to beat out of a punching bag. 

As much as he hates it, Shiro's words bounce around his brain. If the Galra are questioning the loyalty of their members, why wouldn't Keith be any different? He already sticks out like a sore thumb in both the Blade and the Galra, and he's sure that it won't be long before he's questioned, or worse, if the dead Galra member Shiro mentioned were anything to go off of. A chill runs down his spine. Shiro  _shouldn't_  be listening to rumors. That's just a way to get  _himself_  killed, too. It makes the angry frustration rear its head once more, and it's no longer directed to Keith's prior grievances. This all has to do with Shiro's dumb commitments to Haggar the witch and her usual demands, not to mention Shiro's unfortunate luck. 

The sun is fully set by the time Keith gets to the Blade's headquarters. The cover of night means that he slips on the Blade's mask over his face without fear of being seen, and up goes his hood in lieu of their usual stealth wear. Stepping into the desolate building, taking extreme care to avoid hitting his head on a sparkling light fixture that's likely a fire hazard, he makes his way through the pin quiet room to reach the trapdoor expertly hidden under the floorboards, lifting it up so carelessly he almost leaves it unlatched, which makes his mood get worse. He can't be expected to listen to more lectures than Shiro's. If he does, he might snap. 

"You're six minutes late, Keith," Ulaz notes the second Keith drops onto the floor. 

"I'm aware," Keith grumbles, almost under his breath, before saying, "I apologize for the inconvenience, sir." 

"You understand that there are certain precautions the Blade must take in these times," Ulaz says, and stares down Keith as if the apology isn't enough. "If your identity is compromised, you cannot be expected to lead any Galra to our headquarters." 

It almost sounds like he cares. "Understood," Keith reiterates, tiredly. "I won't let it happen again." (He might, and Ulaz might very well know that, but they leave their unspoken agreement as is). 

"Good." Not looking satisfied-as Ulaz never does-he turns around. "Follow me. I'd like to introduce you to someone." 

"A new Blade member?" Keith questions. It's uncommon, but not unheard of, for a new Blade member to arrive. The last one was Keith, which was well over a month ago.

Ulaz gestures for Keith to follow him deeper into the headquarters, just pausing outside of their main conference room. "Not quite. Agent McClain, if you will?" 

"Hey." 

Keith is not looking at a Blade member, that's for damn sure. 

Agent McClain is leaning in the doorway of the room, wearing tan slacks and a button up shirt- quite business casual- with an unruly head of brown hair and a smirk on his ridiculous, smiling mouth. It's far from what Blade members wear, which is dark clothing to obscure themselves in shadows and usually with their masks on, having no need to confide in each other about their identities. 

Keith knows that the Blade doesn't take in members that are not Galra, and they've certainly never worked with them either. 

Agent McClain has his hand outstretched, too. Like he expects Keith to take it. Which Keith won't, as a precautionary measure, but also because such formalities are a dalliance he can't be bothered to uphold. 

"Who is this?" Keith demands to know, even as the words  _Agent McClain_  still echo in his head. "He shouldn't be here." 

Agent McClain's hand falls. His smile falls flat-likely not anticipating such a cold reception. "Okay," he says, tone bordering on icy, "I see where the confusion would be. You must be the Blade member Ulaz mentioned. I'm Lance McClain." And he sticks out his hand,  _again_.

Keith looks at Ulaz incredulously. He can't possibly assume-

"You will be expected to introduce Lance into Galran society," Ulaz demands, in his same neutral yet firm tone that suggests he will not be persuaded otherwise. "The Blade of Marmora have forged an alliance with the agency called Voltron. Lance McClain is the operative selected to infiltrate the Galran regime, and we will do all we can to help." The unspoken " _you_  will do you all you can do help" is implied enough so that Keith frowns. 

"What is  _Voltron_?" Keith asks, with his mind already unwillingly going through the various motions to where he might be expected to recognize this "Voltron" entity, which, he doesn't. "You don't know them or their intent, Ulaz. How can we trust them?" 

Lance coughs. "Hi, still here," he interjects. "I can vouch for my organization. Voltron-"

"I wasn't talking to you," Keith cuts him off, with a not-particularly-nice glare, which stuns Lance McClain into surprised silence. 

"Keith." It's just his name, but Ulaz makes it so much more. It's a warning, but more importantly, it's an accusation- how dare he question Ulaz's leadership so blatantly, and within earshot of someone who is not part of the Blade. 

Keith obediently goes quiet, but he's seething. Shiro's words are running through his head- the fact that the Galra are distrustful of their own ranks. Introducing an outsider to the Galra will only increase their suspicions. If Shiro were to be attacked on this basis, or if Keith were to be found out, then...

"The risk is far too great, sir," Keith argues. "The Galra are-"

"-attempting to rid themselves of Blade spies. Yes, I am aware of this current paranoia epidemic." Ulaz looks towards Lance, who has taken it upon himself to stare at Keith quite murderously. Keith can't find it in himself to be apologetic for his harsh words- he has more pressing matters at hand. 

"They won't accept an outsider," Keith replies. 

"Seems they accepted you just fine," Lance interjects himself into the conversation smoothly, with a shitty superiority that makes Keith want to punch him in the jaw. His fingers curl into fists instinctively, and the scabs on his knuckles remind him that his strength is currently limited. Reluctantly, he unfurls his fists and settles for words. 

"I was not an outsider," Keith snaps. "I was  _born_  Galra." 

"Half, actually. How's that mom of yours, still in Texas where she abandoned you?"  The question is goading, yet theoretical, and Lance is smiling like the cat who caught the canary. 

This time, it takes Keith a lot longer to persuade himself against punching this smug bastard right in this wide-toothed grin. His shoulders tense, and he digs his fingernails into his palms so hard he draws blood. 

"Who are you?" Keith hisses, through gritted teeth. 

"Lance McClain," Lance repeats, and outstretches his hand for the third time, yet mockingly. "Operative of Voltron. Here to help." 

"We don't  _need_ -"

"Keith." 

Keith backs down, but his blood is boiling. How dare this lanky supposed agency operative weasel his way into Ulaz's good graces and know about Keith's parental lineage. How dare he know anything at all, when Keith doesn't know anything about him in return. 

"I hope you've gotten this out of your system," Ulaz instructs, "As you will be expected to work together in the foreseeable future." 

Keith wants to refuse, but clamps his mouth shut, jaw clenched in silent protest. He can't go against Ulaz's orders- he gets enough flack whenever he does, anyway. His nostrils flare angrily as Lance shoots him a triumphant smirk, glad to have gotten the last word. 

"Krolia will not want to hear of this behavior, Keith," Ulaz says, distinguishing Keith's thinly veiled anger. "She was the one who suggested you take on this role. She has deemed you trustworthy, and you  _will_  follow orders." 

"Great," Keith retorts, before he can stop himself, not nicely, but Ulaz probably expects that. 

"That sarcastic tongue of yours is maddening," Ulaz remarks. "If you would please escort Lance to his office, soldier." 

Scowling, Keith turns to leave, and barely discerns that Lance is following him. The entirety of the Blade of Marmora's headquarters is underground, only accessible by the trapdoor in the abandoned building, with living quarters designated for each member that requires it, along with spaces that double as offices. The rooms are tiny, impersonal, and overall shitty, but Keith calls one home. He also really doesn't want to show Lance around, because this entire situation is just unorthodox and he'd like to  _not_  spend more time with this asshole. 

"Dude," Lance asks, "What is your problem?" 

Keith doesn't bother to face him as he answers, "This is where you'll be staying. Ulaz expects punctuality." He pauses, and wonders if he can warn this recruit about lateness when he doesn't even bother to stay on time himself. "I trust that Ulaz showed you to the weapons arsenal, so I won't bother with a grand tour of the rest of this place." He knocks open an unoccupied room, the metal door swinging open with a screech to reveal its simple setup of a bed and a desk. "If you need anything," he adds, begrudgingly, "I'm just across the hall." 

"Gee, thanks." Lance doesn't look grateful, of course, even as he sarcastically drones words of gratitude. "I  _don't_  know where your weapons arsenal is, by the way. Do I get a special gun or something?" 

"We don't use guns." Keith thinks of anything he'd rather be doing than debriefing some clueless operative. Letting Shiro lecture him again. Painting the Spanish tile of a house. Crocheting, even if he doesn't know what that is. 

"What do you mean, you  _don't_  use guns?" Lance frowns, crossing his arms. "How are your members expected to protect themselves? Am I supposed to walk into Galra territory  _unarmed_ -" 

"We are a covert, undercover group," Keith stresses, raising his voice to be heard over Lance's complaining, wondering if it's possible to pop a blood vessel in his jaw, "And we don't carry large weapons. Each of our members are skilled in knife and hand-to-hand combat. If you aren't, then you'll have to deal with it." 

Lance's mouth is twisted in a line that is neither angry nor irritated but rather somewhere in between. "What, you don't think I can hold my own?" 

"I don't even know you." Extending an arm into Lance's room, Keith says, "You'll want to rest, and read your first assignment." Grumbling, he adds, "Ulaz probably assigned you to whatever op I've got." 

Lance slides past Keith, and the grimace on his face makes it sure that he's not used to living in cramped, cluttered places. Sure, the room is dismal, but Keith thinks it works. Evidently Lance doesn't, and his eyes scan the wall as if he'll find some form of natural light or anything other than rusty metal. Eventually, his eyes land on the bed that's more of a cot and the standard issue office folder lying on it. 

"Paper," Lance notes, thumbing through it. "Leaves a trail." 

Keith sighs. "There's a cigarette lighter around here somewhere."

Lance gapes. "You expect me to just light this on  _fire_  after I read it?" 

"Safety protocol," Keith offers as an explanation, leaning against the doorway entrance without bothering to search for the elusive lighter. "The ventilation in this place isn't great, so I'd advise leaving the room to let the smoke clear a bit."  

"This isn't some huge fucking joke, it it?" Lance asks, and he flicks the folder with irritation lacing each word. 

Keith closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe in. "Do I look like I would joke about official business?" 

"I don't know, you're wearing that dumb mask." Lance's eyes rake over Keith's entire form- his sweaty hoodie hastily zipped over a ratty blood-splattered t-shirt and a pair of jeans that have seen better days with a pair of running shoes that may or may not be Shiro's, topped off with, of course, the Blade of Marmora mask. 

"Yours is in your desk. If you're coming with us on any ops, they're a requirement," Keith settles for saying. "Unless you think compromising your identity is dumb." 

"Funny," Lance replies, wryly. "I can't tell if you're lying to me or not." 

"I wouldn't lie to someone who has the capacity to unravel everything the Blade has worked so hard for," Keith says, bordering on testily. "If you mess up anything, it reflects on the entirety of this group. I don't know if you realize, but involving you in our operations is the riskiest thing Ulaz has done." 

"You think I don't know what's at risk?" Lance asks, and he frowns. He looks incredibly angry as he stalks closer, pointing a finger in Keith's face, continuing, "You think I don't realize the consequences if I don't blend in? I'll end up dead if the Galra find out I'm a double agent, same as you." 

"Then do me a favor and start acting like it," Keith responds with just as much anger, before he can even stop himself, and resists the urge to push Lance away. Pushing himself off the doorframe, he snaps, "I'm out of here. Read your assignment, and report to Ulaz." 

Lance says something in response, but Keith doesn't hear it as he slams the door shut with more force than necessary, enough so that the thin walls reverberate and probably annoy the neighboring rooms. 

With the slam of the door reverberating, Lance wants to kick the thin aluminum slab in frustration. He refrains, as he isn't sure that he can trust himself not to get more upset- he has a mission, and Allura will contact him soon. Sure enough, a crackling at his ear makes him flinch, but not for long. 

"Status report, agent?" 

Allura's English accent makes Lance's previous anger dissipate with each syllable she pronounces. 

"I say  _Vol_ , you say  _Tron_ , Princess," he says, flirtatiously, fingers fondly touching the earpiece as he pictures Allura's face. She's probably still in her office, because she'll work late and work on documents until Coran will cease humoring her workaholic tendencies and coax her into going home. "How can I help?" 

"I imagine Ulaz must have your first assignment," Allura notes, her voice sounding too far away for Lance's liking, and preoccupied, a sure sign that she is multitasking, and Lance wonders if her hair smells like lilac, or if the smell of Pidge's strong coffee has permeated through the entirety of the building and overpowered every other smell. It's certainly happened before. Deep in thought, he misses most of what she has said, and only hears,  "If it's not too much to ask-"

"Of course not," Lance is quick to say, understanding what she needs and grasps his file, rifling through the papers he has strewn across the bed. "Apparently, they burn their files after reading them because they use paper, so, I guess I'll have to burn it once I read it to you," he muses. 

"Barbaric," Allura says, almost shocked at such a notion. "Have they no technology?" 

"I think they barely have electricity," Lance bemoans, eyeing the flickering light right above his mediocre desk, "And this place might be hotwired." 

"Bug check?" 

"Secure, I ran a diagnostic scan of my area before taking this call." Lance flips onto the paper that he's highlighted the most- reading on paper makes him feel as if he's in school again, cramming on late nights with that familiar and fluorescent highlighter streaking the pages of messy notes. "Nothing that my scanners picked up. There's not much I have to report, though. I'm not officially a Galra member yet." 

"I would hope not," Allura laughs, and Lance swoons. "The Blade are allies, Lance, don't worry. All their members are part of the Galra, but the Blade are working to undermine their operation from the inside. I know that they will help you the most, Lance." 

He sighs. "Sure doesn't seem like it. Some Blade member assigned to me is a real asshole."

"Ah, yes-Keith Kogane. You've read the file on his life, but I imagine he doesn't like that you know so much about him. It's not as if he's a threat to you, Lance. In fact, I think he's the most suited to you as their newest member. He's the one who has established some credibility among the Galra on accepting halfers."

"Half-what?" 

"Slang. Halfers are half-Galra," Allura explains. "Of course, Keith has only been monumental in his reach as a halfer due to another influence, which I am sure you know all about." Almost bitterly, she utters out, " _Lotor_ ," with much disdain.  

"Lotor." Lance makes a note of the name that he has been highlighting. "If the Galra was an empire, he'd be the prince." 

"Right you are." Allura gives a slight sigh. "Zarkon's son has largely flown under the government's radar. No sketchy behavior whatsoever on record. He constantly collaborates with half-Galra members, we believe in undermining his father's influence." 

"Why is that notable?" Lance asks, frowning. "He doesn't want to follow his father's path, is undermining his orders..."

"We don't know what he  _wants_ ," Allura hisses, frustrated but more at herself than Lance. Another sigh. The crackling around her voice is getting louder. "Forgive me, operative. As Lotor's motives are unknown, we must continue to pursue him. Of course, there is the matter of his close friend's death, Narti." 

"Narti," Lance parrots. "Of course, I remember that case. Hunk was on that operation, and said her death was the oddest thing." 

"Her corpse, with no signs of struggle, laid slain at the scene of the crime- yet the coroner deduced she was awake at the time of her death," Allura says, repeating all of the facts Lance has heard before. "Lotor was my main suspect, but he was no one else's. The FBI wouldn't hear about taking him in for questioning as there was no DNA evidence or murder weapon picked up at the scene."

"And you want me to get close to him," Lance replies, slowly. "Is that it?" 

"Correct, operative." Allura sounds positive, for the first time since she's begun speaking. "I understand that getting close to the gang leader's son might be difficult. Given his affinity for halfers, however-Keith Kogane is your greatest asset." 

Lance groans, and Allura laughs. 

"He's such an asshole," he bemoans, "and he threw the biggest fit when Ulaz asked him to introduce me into Galran ranks. You'd think I asked him to cut off his right arm for me or something. Plus, he has a mullet." 

"Come now, you've always been able to converse quite easily. In fact, you're one of the best operatives we have when it comes to convincing people of interest to open up to you. I have complete faith in you, as a representative of our organiz-"

The crackling static drowns out most of her last sentence, and Lance frowns, shuffling his papers into a solid pile and standing on the bed, attempting to get some form of better signal into his earpiece. 

"...someone that I believe we can trust. I know in my heart that there's something genuine about him. I wouldn't say so if I didn't think so, Lance." 

"I trust your judgement, Princess," Lance promises. "If it makes you happy, then you'd better believe I'll do it." 

"Excellent. Thank you, Lance." Lance takes a moment to thank God when she utters her name and the sound quality is infinitely better than radio static. It's enough to fuel his romantic thoughts that she sounds so genuine, especially when she usually refers to him as operative. 

"Just doing my job," Lance declares. "I'd better let you go, it's late." 

"Right, of course. Keep me updated." When Allura clicks their communication off, Lance lets out a dreamy sigh. But, he can't get sidetracked. He needs to remember that he's got a commitment to Voltron, which starts with setting those papers on fire and preparing to get close enough to the Galra's heir. 

Simple enough. 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The cots in the Blade of Marmora headquarters are not agreeable, Lance decides when he wakes up with a stiff neck and a sore back, and he fleetingly debates whether the oak desks at Voltron would make softer beds. Do BOM agents have spines of steel? Whatever the case, Lance hasn't gotten a wink of sleep and he is bitterly reminded of the fact the second Allura pages him to come in to Voltron at six in the morning and he's leaning against the breakroom's refrigerator, pinching the bridge of his nose and yawning. He's not the first person in, but he's the only one in the breakroom; that changes the instant Pidge finds out he's back. 

"You're in deep, huh?" Pidge rhetorically asks as her greeting statement, clutching a tablet to her chest excitedly, sounding almost impressed, with her hair sticking straight out as if she's been shocked by electricity, wearing a pair of glasses Lance knows aren't prescription. "What's the 411?" 

Lance, pouring the straight black roast from the communal coffee pot, almost drops his mug with a wince at how loud and peppy she is. 

"Jesus," he complains, "Don't  _do_  that." 

"I want to hear all about it," Pidge demands without waiting for answers to her own questions as she asks more. "All the nitty gritty details, what the Galra do. Have you killed anyone? You'd tell me, right? You'd tell me if you did that?" 

"Pidge," Lance complains, rubbing a hand over his tired jaw, "It's six in the morning. When would I have had time to kill anyone from last night to this morning?  _Why_  would I kill anyone?" 

Pidge shrugs, setting her tablet down and swapping it for a mug that she unearths from the temperamental microwave. Lance doesn't even want to know how long that coffee's been sitting, so he doesn't ask, he only grimaces as Pidge sips from the mug and protectively sets it on the counter and away from the other communal office mugs. 

"It could come with the territory, you know," Pidge muses, pushing her glasses up her nose. "The Galra are like, notorious for always having rift wars about their land and stuff. Plenty of dead bodies come up in the rivers." 

Lance's heart skips a beat. "Tied to Galra?" he asks, fearfully. 

Pidge nods. "Not officially, as far as the FBI is concerned. There's not enough evidence. The bodies are never claimed, either. Always fired up in the morgue." Sneakily, a smile works it way across her mouth. "How do you feel, knowing you could go missing?" 

"Pidge," another voice interjects, "We've talked about this. Don't make Lance paranoid." 

Hunk Garrett enters the office breakroom with exasperation written all across his face and a pan of pastries in his arms-he's heard the tail end of Pidge's sentence, likely. Lance gives a silent exhale of breath at the sight of his oldest friend and instantly zeroes in on a blueberry muffin, which he picks out before Hunk has even fully entered the room. 

Pidge huffs, but notices Hunk and keeps a mischievous grin on her face. "It's not like he isn't already scared." 

"Hey," Lance objects, and he ignores how his voice wobbles, "I'm not  _scared_." And he takes a huge bite of the muffin to avoid elaborating. 

"You  _look_  scared." Pidge takes another sip of her cold coffee and reaches for a doughnut that Hunk has just unloaded into the breakroom's cabinet. "The mafia have ties everywhere. Who says they haven't infiltrated... _Voltron_." 

"Alright, that's enough conspiracy theories for you," Hunk says, and he squints at the mug that Pidge has been hoarding, that one that reads _#1_  in big, purple letters. "Why do you have Coran's mug? He's been missing it for weeks." 

"To see how long I can get away with it," Pidge notes, and there's a sort of grandeur in her revelation, as if she's proud to have bested the right hand of the operation chief. It would be more impressive if Coran weren't such a scatterbrained individual to begin with. 

"Return that before I report you to HR," Hunk says, placing the coffee pot back in its warmer. 

"You wouldn't, and we both know that," Pidge gloats, and takes another sip of coffee. 

Lance sighs. "It's too early for this shit." He takes the coffee he poured for himself to take a sip and immediately spits it out, all over Hunk's blazer, the second the salty taste coats his tongue. 

" _Lance_ ," Hunk groans, but that's the least of Lance's worries. 

"Who the  _fuck_ ," Lance snaps, slamming the mug down, "Replaced the coffee with  _soy sauce_?" 

"Gee, I don't know. Sounds like a real mystery you should solve, operative," Pidge replies, cheekily, with a wink as she takes Coran's mug and saunters out. 

" _Pidge_!" Lance crows to her retreating back, "You're going to regret this!" 

Hunk sniffs the coffee pot. "Yep, that's soy sauce." He drains it down the sink and sets to washing it, dunking the pot into soapy water and scrubbing. "How's that Blade of Marmora gig?" 

"I'm going to get that little shit," Lance promises with a grumble before replying, "I've got a recon op tonight. Apparently Keith is supposed to get me into some Galra operations."

"Kogane, right?" Hunk rinses the soy sauce residue off. "Pidge got a hold of his file and told me all about him. Kinda sucks, doesn't it? Foster system and all that." 

"Doesn't change the fact that he's an asshole- hey," Lance squints, suspiciously as his words sink in, "Did Allura give you clearance to know about the Blade of Marmora?" 

"Oh, is that on a need to know basis? I don't know, Pidge just filled me in," Hunk replies with a thoughtful shrug. 

"So she's hacking our databases again-do you think she's been  _listening_  in on my earpiece?! I wouldn't put it past her."

"Beats me, buddy. Do they let you come and go all the time?" Hunk asks, the concern leaking into his curiosity. "You know, just in case they have to kill you or something for leaving their super secret hideout." 

"You know, I didn't actually ask," Lance muses, "I kinda...just left?" 

The office intercom crackles to life. 

"You're de-ad," Pidge sing-songs, her voice melodically carrying throughout the breakroom. 

"Quit listening in!" Lance yells, in the general direction of whichever security camera there is on the ceiling, making good work of pretending not to be scared by the sudden intrusion. 

Hunk sighs. "She's...something." 

"She's a pain in my ass, that's for sure," Lance grumbles, giving the intercom the stink eye, but gives Hunk a grateful grin when Hunk starts brewing a pot of actual coffee. "Anyway, what about you, big guy? Is there an op you're on?" 

"Me? Nah. Allura's kinda got everyone working on Galra, but your op is the angle she's working," Hunk says, pouring instant powder into the coffee pot. "For now Matt and I got tapped to go undercover at some run-of-the-mill auto shop as mechanics. Apparently the shop's seen a few Galra vehicles go through." 

"Easier than mine," Lance notes, eyebrows raised. "Starting today?" 

"Yeah, me and Matt were already hired. I don't think Matt really knows the difference between an exhaust pipe and a muffler, but he's reading up now," Hunk shrugs. "When are you supposed to be back at the Blade?" 

"File said twelve. I'm supposed to go on a run with Keith," Lance replies, frowning at the thought of Keith and his ornery personality. "He's a real piece of work, though." 

"Keith Kogane?" Hunk asks, musing over his name as he no doubt thinks about the file he's read. "Good luck, dude. He's got a reputation, that's for sure." 

"He-  _what_?" 

"Later, Lance!" 

"Wait, Hunk! What do you mean,  _reputation_?!" 

Lance doesn't even get the chance to finagle more information out of Hunk, and Keith's supposed reputation, before the earpiece nested in his ear chirps with an incoming transmission and Coran's voice informs him to report to Allura's office in his melodic accent that is, like everyone else, too chipper for Lance's liking. 

And he hasn't even had a damn cup of coffee. 

"Good morning, operative," Allura greets Lance as he strolls into her office, but her eyes are focused on her desk as she taps away at a paper-thin tablet, the three-dimensional monitor interacting with her fingertips as it boasts the image of the Galran emperor. "I trust that the hospitality of Ulaz last night was to your liking." Her voice is detached, as she busies herself with other matters, but does take a moment to indicate that Lance should sit. 

Lance does, and replies, "Ulaz was very...hospitable, yes." 

"Excellent. Now, let us discuss this operation that begins in approximately five hours and nineteen minutes," Allura says, business as usual, as Coran enters the room to stand besides her and suspiciously appraise Lance in the process. "I suspect you will be asked to induct yourself into Galra ranks, but the Blade has supplied me with a false approximation of the Galra mark that we can imbed into your skin with semi-permanent ink to avoid suspicion. Coran, if you will?" 

"Wait," Lance holds out his hand, "What Galra mark am I required- _ow_!" 

Coran has already grasped onto Lance's shoulder and yanked up his sleeve, administering a syringe of green liquid that bubbles as it pierces the skin, before brandishing what appears to be an ordinary stationary black ink pen. The pen sits itself upright without need of Coran's help and begins to etch a design onto Lance's arm, scribbling away while Coran takes his spot next to Allura again. 

"Apologies, operative," Allura explains in a voice that does  _not_  sound apologetic, "your cover depends on such a mark, but worry not, the ink will fade in three months time. Now, your combat training will come in handy as guns are not allowed on Blade premises-" 

Lance winces as the pen seems to cut especially deep. "Not allowed," he echoes. "Got it." 

"If it's possible," Coran cuts in, twiddling his mustache, "Can Lance be shadowed? I would feel more secure if he had more backup, Princess..."

"Not necessary. The Blade have sworn allegiance with our cause, and Keith Kogane is the only support Lance will need." Allura moves her finger across the monitor and Zarkon's picture is replaced with the live footage of a seemingly nondescript building. "I'm sure you've read about it in your file already, but this is an image of the place where you will accompany Keith today, Agent McClain." 

Lance reads the neon sign flashing on the monitor aloud. "Vrepit Sa. The nightclub across town?" 

"Correct. The Galra are known to have ties to the establishment," Allura continues, zooming in on the address as her software accommodates the widening lens of the security camera. "I believe that you will be involved in their neuostimulant exchanges, as that is the form of operations that Kogane has had experience in." 

"Neuostimulant exchanges," Lance drawls, "So, drug deals." 

Coran frowns, but doesn't comment. 

"To mince words, yes," Allura says, and she almost smiles. "The Blade will provide more detail than I have clearance for, but I wanted to have you come to Voltron so that I might relay my own message in person." 

"Princess," Coran warns, but his testy warning doesn't deter Allura. She leans forward, clasped hands atop her desk, with a fiery conviction in her blue eyes that makes Lance wonder if he should be aroused or not. 

"Befriending Lotor is crucial to our plans," she informs him. "If possible, convince him to trust you." 

"Suicide," Coran cuts in. "For an outsider, not Galran, attempt to gain the confidence of the Galra's most feared enigma? That's a suicide mission, Princess." He's angry, eyebrows furrowed, a vein strained in his forehead. It surprises Lance, even more than the pen that has ceased writing on his arm and now lays dormant on Lance's leg. It's the first time he's seen Coran so heated, the first time he's heard Coran directly challenge Allura's orders; Lance wonders what she'll do. 

Allura is breathing hard, nostrils flared, but her voice stays firm and polite as she responds, "I've always respected your opinions, Coran." A nonverbal  _but_  hangs in the air before she continues, "I have faith in operative McClain. I wouldn't entrust him with this operation if I did not, as I have professed before." 

Coran's left hand is gripping onto his right wrist behind his back so intently that his knuckles are turning white. "You have the final say in all operations, Princess," he begrudgingly admits. 

"And this Lotor emphasis is not solely my-that is, Voltron's-wish. The Blade of Marmora has made it their priority as well. Zarkon can only fall once his son provides the information we need." Allura closes the monitor, and the nightclub closes into empty space. "Operative, any questions?" 

"Yes," Lance responds, with an extranet amount of confidence. "When's the soonest I can start?" 

He knows the answer to it, and learns it the hard way hours later. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"You're  _late_." 

Lance, stuffing his mask into the pocket of his grey skinny jeans, rolls his eyes, but straightens, pinching at the fabric of the rumpled button up that crossed the line between magenta and what can only be classified as  _clown red_. "If I was actually going to a club," he informs Keith, "I wouldn't be wearing such a hideous color. I'm more of a blue man, myself." 

Lance is introduced to Keith's face for the first time. 

When they had first met, Keith had been wearing the Blade of Marmora mask with the hood over his head and the fabric concealing his features; now Lance can see the mullet of black hair curling around a stern face with a pert nose, furrowed eyebrows, and stunning dark eyes. 

He's kind of...

Gorgeous. 

It's unsettling at first to put this pretty boy face to the biting comments of Keith Kogane, but Lance can't keep staring without it getting weird. He tears his gaze down to Keith's attire instead. 

He's far too stiff, in Lance's opinion. Keith has his arms crossed, cotton creasing at the elbows of a long-sleeved black shirt, glaring at Lance like it's his solitary day job with a calculating look to his eyes that Lance doesn't appreciate, not blinking once to Lance's complaints. 

"It's two minutes past twelve," Keith barks, and repeats, "you're late." He turns on the heel of his scuffed combat boot and stalks towards Vrepit Sa in long strides,  leaving Lance hurrying to keep up with him. 

"My cover story says that I'm a half-Galra, just like you," Lance mutters, out of the corner of his mouth, so that no one can hear him over the din of traffic, but he keeps the side street in his peripheral vision nonetheless to ensure he can't be overheard. "Are we working with halfers?" 

"Shut up," Keith hisses, as they step in front of the door. A burly security guard is standing there, taller than both Lance and Keith by at least four inches, glowering down at the both with tinted sunglasses. 

"Sendak sent us," Keith informs him with practiced indifference, flashing his tattoo just as Lance realizes he should do the same. 

The security guard lets them in without a single word. 

"Hey, thank-" Lance's apology is cut short when Keith's hand grabs onto his shoulder and yanks him inside,  _hard_. 

"Don't fucking  _thank_  him," Keith snaps. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Got it?" 

Lance raises his palms in surrender. "Fine, fine. Y'know, your files could be more thorough about this kinda stuff." 

"That's common sense." Keith studies the unlit interior of the building, where a bar stands unoccupied and the bar stools are stacked on top of the counter and the scent of discount pine-scented floor cleaner hangs around. There's a DJ booth up on a ledge that suffices a stage perhaps, and a rather dirty dance floor with a weird brown stain by the doorway, but it's empty otherwise. 

"This way," Keith motions, and Lance follows, practically stepping at his heels once Keith slips into a back room that is clearly marked  _janitor_  in peeling yellow letters. 

"Ko- _gane_ ," a female voice sing-songs in a greeting, and Lance blinks at the sudden brightness of the fluorescent lights that immediately attack his vision. "Took you long enough." 

"Ezor," Keith greets, briskly. 

Lance steps in line next to him and is surprised to realize that what he assumed was a broom closet is actually a sprawling facility, with long assembly tables that have at least dozens of nondescript people hunched over them, their faces hidden with eyeless masks and their hands working steadily to wrap boxes in cellophane. Ezor, the one who'd met them at the door, is smiling wide, with bright green eyes and pink hair pulled back into a high ponytail, wearing medical scrubs splattered with...

Lance coughs to hide his gasp once he recognizes the telltale reddish brown of drying blood. 

"Lotor's got you on cleanup?" Keith doesn't seem fazed. 

"Zethrid left behind a  _bit_  of a mess," Ezor rolls her eyes. "Nothing you need to worry about. I've got today's deliveries packed for you, but we're taking extra precautions today." She stalks over to the end of an assembly line where industrial-sized silver bins are placed at each table and pulls out a cardboard box. Ezor presents that to Keith with a flick of her ponytail. " _Ingenious_ , isn't it?" 

Lance peers at the box that has now been disguised as an ordinary postal service box, with an official-looking label and all. 

"Ingenious," Keith echoes, deadpan. "I'm assuming a costume change is in order." 

"Sharp as ever, sweetheart," Ezor croons. "The car out back is all yours. Zethrid nicked it this morning, took over the guy's... _morning deliveries._ " 

It doesn't take a genius to understand the implications of her words, and Lance stares at the blood stains again. Keith catches him looking and elbows him in the ribs. 

"New guy," Keith explains. "Name's Lance." 

"Lance," Ezor marvels, with a tilt to her smile. "I was wondering when you were going to make the introductions, Kogane. Got a last name, Lance?" 

"I'd tell you, but I don't give all my secrets away before the first date," Lance says, with a wink. Keith stifles a groan. Ezor giggles. 

"Smooth talker, huh, halfer?" Ezor bats her eyes, and Lance isn't sure if he's mocking her or not. Keith looks irritated, though, and of this Lance can be sure that it's a direct consequence of his own actions and not Ezor's words.  "Keep him out of trouble, Kogane." 

"I intend to." Keith slams the package into Lance's arms and Lance grasps onto it with a surprised yelp at the unexpected force. "That all?" 

"Not quite. We'll need a...helping hand, in recovering a delayed payment," Ezor muses, a devilish smirk spreading across her lips. "Last address on your list. Lotor might want to check out the fresh meat." With a flirty wink of her own, she leaves, and Lance  _really_  thinks that she's mocking him now. 

"Do me a favor, and  _don't_  flirt with women who can gut you with a kitchen fork," Keith instructs, strained, before he's walking as fast as possible towards yet another door, this one locked and separating them from a parking lot that claims to be employees only. 

A mail delivery truck is parked haphazardly outside, the doors wide open while the smell of bleach permeates from the interior. Keith looks inside at the uniform neatly folded on the passenger seat, before he gives a sigh. 

"I'm going to smell like bleach," he mutters, half to himself as he stands upright and glares at Lance. "You're going to have to change, too." Lance doesn't even want to question where the second uniform came from, but he accepts it anyway, decidedly ignoring the large bloodstain on the back of the truck that has not been properly cleaned. 

"What's the Galra protocol on nudity in a public area?" Lance quips, as he mimes pulling off his shirt in plain view of an broken camera on the outside of the door. 

"Don't talk so loud," Keith replies, with a hardened glare, "you're annoying." Lance can hear the unsaid  _this isn't a safe place to talk_  in his words, and settles for pulling off his shirt and pulling on the pants over the ones he already wears blocked from Keith's view behind another parked vehicle. Not graceful, but at least he's not giving an irritating half-Galra Blade member an eyeful. 

"Ready, chief," Lance proclaims, shooting upright. 

Keith still has his shirt off. His back is to Lance, flashing pale skin and prominent muscles that almost leave Lance forgetting  _who_ , exactly, it is that he's admiring. It's not far fetched to admit Keith is hot. Lance knows this, logically. His weakness for pretty people is debilitating at best but  _especially_  in a scenario when said pretty person hates his guts. 

Keith turns to face him, still with a beady gaze and maintains angry eye contact as he buttons the shirt, Lance barely getting a chance to glimpse washboard abs before the fabric settles over them. 

Lance swallows hard, and he might have flushed pink. 

"You don't work for me," Keith says. Narrows his eyes. "Don't call me chief." And he gestures for Lance to get into the car next to him, with their deliveries stacked in the back. 

"You have no sense of humor," Lance notes as he slides into the passenger seat. In reality, the deliveries stacked in their picturesque brown cardboard boxes appear to be glaring at him and it's...unnerving. The illegality of what they intend to do, maybe. The banter helps, usually, on missions. He coughs. "It wouldn't hurt, Mullet." 

  "Interferes with the assignment." Keith turns the key in the ignition and puts the windows up, not bothering to look behind him as he jerks the car into reverse and pulls out of the parking spot. "You're not here to crack jokes." 

"Oh, what, is there a rule against Galra having  _fun_  now, or-" 

"Yes, there is," Keith interjects in a perfectly serious voice. Lance frowns. 

"I can't tell when you're joking, and when you're not," he says. 

"I never joke." Keith eases the truck into traffic, apparently not noticing that Lance has a death grip on his unfastened seatbelt while the tires noisily protest the six-inch drop from the sidewalk to the street. ( _Note to self_ , Lance thinks,  _update Keith Kogane's government file to put 'questionably' before the debatable statement of 'licensed driver')_. 

"Give me the first address on the list, McClain," Keith tiredly instructs. 

"Oh, right." Lance flips through the papers stapled to the clipboard, avoiding any lines crossed out in black pen. "Uh-this handwriting is-pretty shitty." 

"Are you sure you've had field experience before?" Keith gives Lance a wary glance through the rearview mirror. Lance absentmindedly sticks out his tongue without looking up from the page. 

"8484 Penrose street," Lance rattles off once he recognizes that every letter s on the page looks like a z. "Take a left up here." 

Keith cuts across the left lane to a symphony of car honks. "I have Google Maps hooked up to my phone," he informs Lance stiffly. 

"I know all the streets in this town, don't worry about it." Lance stretches out his legs with a yawn. "How long have you lived here?" 

"That's on a need-to-know basis," Keith replies, "And you don't need to know." His eyes narrow at Lance, as if reminding him where he is. 

"Technicality." Lance digs around in his pocket, brandishing what appears to be an ordinary smartphone. Pidge-patented tech, the device specializes in running ultraviolet sensors across spaces and buzzes in succession if it encounters any foreign surveillance software. "This baby means we're good to go and free to talk. So, Mullet, how long have you lived here?" Lance conveniently forgets to mention that he already knows the answer to his own question. 

Keith scoffs. "I don't trust you," he says. "What makes you think I want to tell you about myself?" 

"Take a right here," Lance responds, with an eyeroll to accompany the screeching of tires. "You know, I've been nothing but nice and open here, treating you like a regular Voltron operative, and you're acting like I murdered your cat." 

"Great analogy." Keith eyes the street name and dutifully rolls a stop sign without realizing, which elicits a wince from Lance, not that Keith notices. "I don't have a cat, by the way." 

"It's a  _hypothetical_  situation,  _asshole_ , I'm not murdering cats on my day off-" 

"Shut up," Keith suddenly instructs, and throws the car into a sharp left, which unseats Lance from his rant and his chair all in one. 

"What the hell!" Lance rubs at his head, which has just smashed into the window quite unexpectedly-at least twenty percent of the blame for his newfound head injury has to do with his own inability to wear a seatbelt, but the other eighty percent is solely and indisputably Keith's fault. The change in route is stark, too: the houses lining the street are upkept, with green grass and blooming gardens; the kind of residences Lance knows they won't be visiting. "Penrose is  _not_  this way!" 

"We're being followed." Keith's eyes flicker to his rearview mirror once before it fixates on the residential area road ahead, for once not daring to go above thirty, lest the housewives walking the sidewalks with rambunctious toddlers bear witness to their car chase. "Don't look behind you." 

"How do you know we're being followed?" Lance follow his instructions and stares straight ahead, despite every inch of his being raring to disobey, buckling his seatbelt hurriedly. 

"Gray Mitsubishi," Keith explains, like it makes perfect sense. "I thought it was just driving down the same road but it's been making every turn approximately eighteen seconds after us." 

"How- how can you  _time_...?" Lance sighs. He grits his teeth once they sail around a cul de sac and inherently the end of the residential area, sure that this means Keith will now begin speeding. "You know what, I don't need to know that. Who would follow you?" 

"The Galra have plenty of enemies, I can't be sure." Keith takes a right and the truck jostles into a busier downtown street, nearly hitting a fire hydrant with another screech of the tires (again with the speeding). "Any other group that thinks we're infringing on their turf has a go on the deliveries every week. It varies." 

"Great, great," Lance babbles, back ramrod straight as he still refuses to look back at the gray vehicle even as the curiosity is killing him. "And, uh, what does this car want with us, exactly?" 

"Probably our stock," Keith says through gritted teeth as he turns left on a red light and narrowly misses an eighteen-wheeler, "Possibly to kill us." 

"Great, grea- _what_?!" 

"Don't sound so surprised, McClain," Keith says, and he pushes down the accelerator until the speedometer reads seventy and he's dodging every car going the speed limit of forty-five. "Keep your wits about you. Hope you can shoot as well as you can waste time." 

Lance bites back a retort, closes his eyes, and grabs onto the sides of his seat. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he moans. "M-maybe it's the bleach smell!" The last thing he wants to do is admit he's scared, so he'd rather blame it on the cleaning solution. 

"You Voltron guys must be a tough bunch." Keith has the audacity to sound light and unbothered as he takes a right into another neighborhood, barely slowing down at all even as he hits a speed bump going fifty and the car jumps eight inches in the air only to slam down hard. 

"Real funny," Lance grumbles, eyes tightly closed. "And you said you don't joke." Shakily, his fingers reach to lower the window an inch. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Keith slides behind a car that's just pulled out of a driveway, riding its bumper over a speed hump. "Unless you're  _trying_  to get killed." 

"What, do Galra have a rule against cracking windows now?" Irritated, Lance keeps his eyes shut but obligingly withdraws his hands from the car console. 

"Not Galra. This might be a shock to you, but the Blade doesn't enlist operatives that deliberately initiate shootouts during car chases," Keith drawls. The Mitsubishi looms closer, threatening to overtake them. Keith floors it with a noisy protest from the car engine and an accompanying wince from Lance. 

"I don't...know what you mean." 

"Putting your window down in a car chase is a  _threat_ , genius," Keith rolls his eyes, losing their tail with a sharp U-turn that leaves Lance straining against his now fastened seatbelt. "It's a warning that you're going to shoot first. Are you sure that Voltron lets you out at all?" 

" _Real_  fucking funny," Lance hisses through gritted teeth. 

"You make it easy, McClain." The amusement in Keith's voice doesn't match the intensity of their speed or the impending threat of the vehicle catching up to them. 

"Isn't there someplace we can hide at, or-" 

The first bullet whizzes past and Lance hears every decibel of the gunshot that sent it in his direction, giving a yelp as he sits upright and his eyes shoot open. 

"Shit," Keith whispers, half to himself before he barks, "Get your gun out, now!" 

Fumbling, Lance pulls out his weapon and loads it with a cartridge buried deep in his pocket. "Where, where?" 

"Behind you,  _idiot_ , don't you have  _eyes_?" 

With a click of the safety and a quick glance backward Lance cracks the window and takes the shot, directly puncturing the first two tires of the gray Mitsubishi and it screeches to a stop. The gunshots have already called attention; Lance makes direct eye contact with a concerned-looking man hidden by transparent curtains on a second-story residence and swears. 

"We've got to get out of here before the cops come," Lance says, "If you take a left here we could-" The car jolts, and Keith takes the sharp left on a flat tire and Lance catches sight of the Mitsubishi driver stalking towards them on foot, smoking gun in hand. 

"We've got to make repairs." Keith maneuvers the car into the busy street, glancing backwards briefly. "If we head to Sal's Motors we can hide out there. He's good with the Galra." 

"Sal's Motors it is," Lance affirmatives, even as his heart skips a beat absentmindedly admiring the curve of Keith's jawline. Wait. What? No, that kind of idle thought is not allowed. Not on the job ( _but it's never a problem with Allura,_  his treacherous brain supplies) but it's more because the person he's ogling is someone who's rude and especially someone he doesn't trust. 

Sal's Motors turns out to be ten minutes away, close to Penrose street, situated in the same run-down part of town not far from where the Galra do most of their exchanges. The building looks deserted, a dingy brick two-story building with a few junk cars littered among faded white lines that mark parking spaces. Keith pulls the mail truck right into an opening for a car, and Lance isn't sure what he expects, but then his mouth falls open. 

He isn't expecting to look right at Matt and Hunk. 

They're working on one of the junk cars, Hunk elbow deep in an engine, while Matt appears to be taking notes on a clipboard. The mail truck coming to a screech right before them doesn't faze Matt while Hunk flinches at the noise of the tires. 

Keith doesn't spare the two of them a second glance. "Need a new tire, now," Keith instructs, digging into his pocket and unearthing a wad of folded cash, which he pushes into Matt's bewildered hands. "You know the deal. Vrepit sa." He sounds almost bored as he plops down into a worn armchair located in a makeshift waiting area. 

"Right away, sir!" Matt salutes him with the clipboard, and Hunk groans. 

Lance quickly gets out of the car to pass next to Hunk. "Case?" he asks, out of the corner of his mouth. Hunk nods, and presses a finger to his lips. Sure enough, Pidge's tech in his phone is going crazy, which indicates multiple surveillance systems afoot. 

"Any idea who was chasing us yet?" Lance asks, sliding into a chair across from Keith. 

"Got an inkling," Keith shrugs, crossing his arms, not bothering to look at Lance when he responds. "No one you'd recognize, fresh meat. Lotor makes enemies, the Galra have plenty of enemies, I doubt you'll know which gang is which." 

"I do my research, Mullet. Try me," Lance goads, slipping into a metal folding chair opposite Keith. 

Keith glances at Hunk and Matt out of the corner of his eye. "Mixed company. Big pitchers-little ears-I don't know the phrase." 

"Right, right." Lance drapes his arms around the back of his chair. He can't indicate that the undercover mechanics are on their side without it seeming suspicious, so he bides his time staring at the ceiling with a blank stare. Keith, in turn, is glaring at Matt and Hunk mutinously with each passing minute. Matt has never fixed a tire in his life and his impotence is apparent, because he is currently putting the tire on backwards while Hunk doesn't seem to notice as he checks the car's oil. Not the epitome of clandestine. 

"Catch that game last night?" Lance asks into the silence. "Wild." 

"I don't watch sports. You never specified the type of game, either," Keith turns to stare at Lance from the corner of his eye. He lets out an inconvenienced sigh, glaring directly at Matt who is in the process of twisting the lug nuts the wrong way, and with the wrong wrench. "I think we'd have better luck fixing this tire ourselves." 

"Just making conversation." Lance throws Matt a direct glance, rubbing at his nose and twirling his finger in a clockwise motion. Matt nods, shoots Keith a wary look, before he copies Lance's method. 

"I'll replace your antifreeze if that's okay with you," Hunk suddenly calls out from the car's hood. 

"Any chance we can speed this up?" Keith responds, and the impatience makes his sentence testy. "I don't need my antifreeze replaced, just my tire." 

"Uh, yes, right away, sir-Matt?" Hunk takes a look at the tire and grimaces. "Your-uh-tire will be fixed in just a jiffy!" 

"Go easy on the help there." Lance yawns, but that doesn't stop the amused glance he sends Keith's way. 

Keith scoffs. "I'd be easier on them if they weren't in the process of ruining the only mail truck we've got." 

"Hey," Lance says, suddenly, sitting up straight with a devilish grin, "Let's play a game. It's called, 'don't be a major asshole'. Think you can handle that?" 

"I'm getting tired of your fucking  _jokes_ , newbie." There's more venom in Keith's voice than need be, and Lance isn't sure if it's warranted or that Keith's simply playing the part of some Galra honcho in front of Hunk and Matt. Either way, his tone of voice falls in between arousing and annoying. Aka the worst place for Lance's headspace at the moment. 

"R-right," Lance stammers in response, almost choking on the word as he pointedly looks away from Keith. "I'm gonna get a soda. You want anything?" 

"No." Keith is watching Hunk fix Matt's mistakes with the most perplexed expression. 

Lance shoots up from his seat and practically sprints to an outdated vending machine at the corner of the auto repair shop. Its lights flicker belatedly and there's a film of dust over buttons that threaten to permanently concave at a single push, so Lance hopes that a can of off-brand Pepsi won't kill him as he digs change out of his pockets. 

His phone begins to vibrate in his back pocket, and Lance lets it ring for about twenty seconds before he realizes the vibrations are coming from his cell phone and not Pidge's device, fumbling to shove the coins into the machine before he picks up the call without bothering to check the caller ID. 

"Hello?" 

" _Lance_ ," Veronica greets, " _you're in trouble_." 

It's his sister. Of course it is-Veronica can't let her little brother go a day without some form of guilting phone call, making sure to inform him of his responsibilities he's neglected back home or whatever paperwork he hasn't filed-sometimes, it sucks working in the same building as a family member. 

"If this is a work call, I can't take it." Lance throws a careful look over his shoulder. He can't see Keith or Hunk as they're blocked by the mail truck, but he can see Matt is in the process of replacing the car's antifreeze, likely without the go ahead from Keith. 

" _Not calling from work. Look, mami says you need to visit. She's been bugging me all day, saying she misses her little boy_ -" 

"Quit it," Lance groans, but his cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

" _You're her baby,_  travieso,  _so call her once in a while. Abuela wants you to take her to a dominoes match in the park this weekend, by the way_." 

"I might be  _working_ , Veronica." Lance sighs, a lump in his throat when he thinks about his grandmother, knowing that he would want nothing more than to spend hours watching her beat old Cuban men mercilessly at a game of dominoes. She'd insist that he wear his abuelo's  _guayabera_  with her usual knowing smile and clutch one of her many rosaries in wrinkled hands before blessing it and slipping it into one of his pockets- (" _Para suerte_ ," she'd claim, as if luck was what led her to victory.)

It's silent on the line. " _I get it,_ " Veronica says, after a while. " _You won't be able to make it. I hope this is worth it to you, Lance_." 

She hangs up and Lance punches in the two-number combination to receive a soda that's at least three months past its expiration date. Veronica doesn't get it. Not really. She does paperwork for Voltron and the whole neighborhood can know she's on the government payroll because she's not an operative, she doesn't go undercover, she abides by the laws of the police department and lives at home with their parents and doesn't understand why Lance has an apartment he rents on his own under the table. He shares everything with his older sister, but he can't share confidential material about his operations; because of that he  _knows_  he's growing apart from his family and he hasn't called his mother in over two months for her own protection and...he's scared that any of Voltron's enemies could trace his actions back to his family. They're the most important thing in his life. He can't endanger them by sticking to them too closely. 

"You're all set," Hunk says cheerfully, and loudly, for Lance's benefit. "Is that all?" 

Lance makes his way back to the seating area, mood significantly dampened, to where Keith is scrutinizing Hunk's work and Matt is hovering with his clipboard in two hands. Keith gives the tire a kick and when it doesn't budge he huffs, giving a nod in Lance's general direction. 

"We're good to go," Keith tells him tiredly. "Let's get a move on, before we get behind on deliveries." He yanks open the car door and slides into the driver's seat without a second glance at the mechanics, but Lance is giving them each a meaningful nod before following suit into the passenger's seat. 

The first delivery on Penrose street goes smoothly. Their mail truck sidles up to a rundown house in the poorer part of town, with Keith almost hitting a fire hydrant  _and_  parking in a red zone before he grabs one of the stacked cardboard boxes in the back, informs Lance to stay put, and manages to leave and come back in two minutes flat with an envelope tucked into the waistband of his pressed slacks ("Like a stripper," Lance observes aloud, and Keith throws him a dirty look in response that shuts him up instantly). 

It appears that these transactions go quickly and without preamble; they park in shady areas Lance isn't quite sure are safe even in daylight and Keith makes him stay in the car for every single one until they reach the last address on their list, a small one-story house with a slate gray metal fence around a dirt front yard. 

"If I'm not back in ten minutes," Keith says, pulling fingerless gloves over battered hands, "you'll need to come get me." His dark eyes maneuver themselves over Lance's form slowly enough so that Lance wonders, idly, if he's flirting and they're  _eyes_ rather than disdain. He gets his answer when Keith continues, "I hope you know how to fight, but I wouldn't count on it."  

Before Lance can sputter a response, Keith is gone and Lance can't defend that his lithe physique is stronger than it looks. Ten minutes. Lance actually takes out his cell phone and starts a timer, and that's when he slowly realizes that Keith exited the car without a package and with protective covering on his hands. What an asshole. He can't even trust Lance to be backup and now he's here just as a last resort, to finish the fight if Keith can't. 

Infuriatingly, he can't even do that. Keith saunters to the side of the truck with four minutes to spare, his hand clutching a rumpled stack of bills and the other clenched in a fist, so tightly that Lance almost misses the fresh bloodstains that decorate Keith's knuckles. When he opens the door, Keith throws the bills in Lance's direction without bothering to give a warning. 

"What the fuck," Lance breathes out in shock as he scrambles to salvage the mess of hundred dollar bills Keith has carelessly tossed onto the floor. His eyes widen as he counts thirteen hundred dollars in total, crumpled by Keith's tight hold with a few stained by rouge droplets of blood. "Why'd you throw them at me?"  

Keith doesn't bat an eye. "Like a stripper," he replies, calmly, as he turns the key in the ignition. 

"Is that- is that a  _joke_?" 

"I don't joke." 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> totally slipped my mind about updating!! tbh I'm just writing this fic for me + to get in the groove of writing again, so I've been working on it on and off all summer. This chapter introduces Shiro and some other new faces from Season 8!

Ezor has changed, swapping the sickly green medical scrubs for a cream blouse and a pair of faded denim jeans. Inexplicably, there's a black cat held in her arms as she greets them at the entrance of the Vrepit Sa nightclub. There's no bouncer heralding the entrance this time around, just Ezor, and seeing as it's half-past two the rest of the club is deserted. The cat squirms in her arms and gives a yowl just as Keith and Lance step inside, Keith frowning at the offending animal while Lance grins.

"He's gorgeous," Lance coos, and reaches out to give the cat's ear a gentle scratch. The cat purrs and leans into his touch, leaping from Ezor's hold and Lance catches him quickly.

"Kova normally doesn't like strangers." Ezor grins and pats the cat's back once before turning to Keith. "How did it go?"

Keith presses the cash into Ezor's outstretched hand. "I'm not sure he'll be a repeat customer after I gave him such a warm welcome." Snarky, but executed by Keith it's humorless.

"Ah, as long as you covered your tracks." Ezor flips through the money as her grin turns satisfied. "So," she pivots on her heel to face Lance with glinting, excited green eyes, "are you ready to meet Lotor?"

"Lotor," Lance repeats, swallowing hard, and Kova screeches and slips out of Lance's hold to pad away with her tail upright. "Zarkon's son-it'd be an honor."

"Wait." Keith's gaze flicks from Lance back to Ezor. "About covering tracks. We got followed. Grey Mitsubishi. I caught the license plate." He rattles off the combination of letters and numbers so easily that Lance's jaw drops-how can Keith _remember_ something like that, when he was the one driving?-but Ezor is giving a slow, understanding nod.

"Were there any loose ends to get rid of?" Ezor's voice is hard to place; sharp, maybe growing angry, as her smile disappears in an instant.

"No. Lance shot out the tires, and the driver was unable to follow on foot."

Ezor ponders this for a minute or two before she decides, "Well, we can let this slide. Nothing was taken, and none of our own are dead." She looks pensive before continuing, "Let's go. We can't leave Lotor waiting, now, can we?"

The hallway she leads them down is dark for the middle of the day. There are no windows in this part of the nightclub and there are security guards stationed at a dark wooden door at the hallway's end, and Lance inhales a little too sharply as he recognizes the machine guns strapped to the security's backs. Keith is unbothered, and ambles after Ezor in the dark with practiced ease that suggests visiting Lotor is a standard occurrence. If Lance wasn't as observant, maybe he wouldn't have noticed the tense clench of Keith's jaw. But he is, and so Lance can only wonder why Keith does not like to be around Lotor.

Ezor stops right before the door, and nods towards a security guard who opens up the room for them, and then Lance steps in beside Keith to be baffled.

The office, which belongs to a rich crime syndicate's only son and heir, is ordinary. The desk is cherry red wood scuffed with age and water stains and the computer atop it is a blocky PC that has been outdated since the turn of the twenty-first century; a few picture frames poised by the keyboard show off a smiling woman with dark hair hugging a small child in her arms, an old cube radio plays staticky pianoforte, and Lotor, son of Zarkon, the number one priority of Voltron, is playing sudoku. Lotor, whose elusiveness entails that his photo has never been taken by any government agency or even a gossip magazine considering how much wealth his father has, has never had photographic evidence on Voltron premises. Lotor, additionally, is not old, as Lance has expected. He is young, not yet thirty, classically handsome with enviably long and straight hair so pale it appears white cascading around the shoulders of a gray collared shirt and eyes that dance between deep blue and purple.

"Ezor," he greets in a charming English accent, carefully setting down his pencil with a small smile. "How nice of you to drop by."

"You're British," Lance blurts in surprise, without thinking. Besides him, Keith tenses and audibly sucks in a hiss of air and Lance pales, realizing that speaking directly to a mafia's head honcho rudely and without introduction has to be the stupidest way to announce his own death wish.

He laughs.

Lotor laughs, hiding his mouth with a fist before recovering himself to smile directly at Lance, the mirth evident in the quirk of his lips. "Yes, I am. I suppose it's not common knowledge that I'm a European expat, then."

Keith's jaw is clenched tighter than before, and the only thing Lance can manage in response is a weak smile.

"You remember Kogane, don't you, Lotor?" Ezor gestures towards Keith before pointing her thumb at Lance. "This is your new lackey, Lance." Jovially, she adds, "He's that halfer Kogane vouched for." Paired with a secretive little grin.

"Is that right." Lotor surveys Lance's appearance in the mailman uniform that reeks of bleach and Lance stands ramrod straight at attention, feeling like he's back at military school while Keith simply gives a curt nod. "Kogane here," Lotor's eyes flick to Keith, "vouched for your loyalty as a Galra member, Lance?"

Lance coughs. "Yes, sir." He hopes he isn't sweating.

"Ah, so polite." There's something unnerving, Lance realizes, hidden in the charming tilt of Lotor's smile. "I make it a priority to get to know all of my...employees, Lance. I do wish to know that your loyalties lie with _me,_ and me alone." Lotor is looking at Keith pointedly as he says this, and Keith is looking back at Lotor with a challenge in his dark eyes.

"Of course," Lance replies with more conviction than he feels.

"Excellent." Lotor leans back into his desk chair and snaps his fingers. "Ezor, please escort these fine gentlemen out of my office. I expect we'll be working _very_ closely together, after all. Oh, and Keith?"

Keith, who has already turned around to make a hasty exit at their dismissal, stops in his tracks, but doesn't turn around.

"Do say hello to our Champion, for me."

Keith slams the door behind him, hard, in an effort to avoid punching Lotor in his smarmy face.

Ezor leaves them at the front of the nightclub and congratulates them on a job well done after they've changed back into their day clothes and parked the mail truck behind their facility. ("You've made a memorable first impression," Ezor tells Lance, practically impressed as she continues, "Lotor will request you personally next time," to which Keith frowns and stalks away from the entrance without a proper goodbye). Lance, on the other hand, is trying to understand why Keith has been quietly seething to himself for the past fifteen minutes and finally ventures to ask once they've walked down the block to where Lance has parked his car.

"Are you alright?" Lance asks, crossing his arms with concern. "You've been pretty quiet."

"Fine." Keith leans against Lance's car with a biting glare. "Why do you care?"  
  
"Uh, common courtesy?" The teasing lilt of his voice does not have the desired effect, as Keith continues glowering. Lance gulps. "Who is the Champion?"

" _No one_." The glare is murderous, now, and Lance's inquisitively baiting question falls flat. Keith's arms are crossed, knuckles white from how tightly he's gripping his own elbows. Lance, knowing that he's clearly touched a sore subject, backs off, unsure of what to say or do next.

Lance chews on his lower lip before blurting out, "You should come hang out with me. And some friends. Like, right now."

Immediately regrets it. What is he _doing_ , inviting some guy he's known for less than ten consecutive hours to Voltron's weekly unofficial special operations dinner? Not thinking, apparently. Hunk might think he's crazy. Pidge might think he has a crush. Matt will _definitely_ think he has a crush. Besides, Keith would never _agree_ -

"Okay."

Lance stops. Blinks. "-okay?"

"Yeah." Keith rights himself and points further down the block, towards a sleek motorcycle. "I brought my bike, but I can follow you."

"Your bike," Lance repeats. "Right. Cool. I'll, uh, lead the way." _And hope my friends won't be major assholes._

Wishful thinking.

The Holt household consists of what Coran fondly refers to as "double trouble" and what the rest of Voltron recognizes as "Matt and Pidge Holt" or sometimes by their alias last name of Gunderson. Voltron's special operations department has a weekly ritual Friday nights where one person hosts dinner and the rest of them bring a dish to contribute, and it's the Holt sibling duo's turn to entertain the department at their apartment. Lance, who had entrusted Hunk with his own covered dish of tostones, only has to show up. This part is harder, now that he has brought a total stranger to hang out with his most trusted coworkers.

But, yeah. His friends can be _major assholes._

Pidge is blinking owlishly at Keith through her glasses, giving a quiet hmm every once in a while like she's discovered something intriguing about his facial structure or his God-awful mullet, circling him like a vulture while Keith sullenly sits on a folding chair at the edge of the room. Matt, on the other hand, is giving Lance ostentatious winks and inappropriate hand signals.

Lance flips him off.

"Lance says you're a Blade of Marmora agent," Hunk says, cheerily to break the silence, around a mouthful of burnt rice courtesy of Matt that no one else has touched _but_ Hunk (out of politeness; Lance is sure it's deceitful to Hunk's advanced palate). "That must be-"

"It's fine." Keith side-eyes Pidge warily.

"We should watch a game," Lance quickly interjects, as he piles his plate full of food, steering _clear_ of the Holt rice, seating himself next to Keith and shooing Pidge away. "Matt?"

"Oh, yeah, there's a basketball game tonight." Matt sits himself on the couch but not without throwing Lance another wink and continuing, "Keith, isn't it? I'm sure you know Lance hates sports."

"I _don't_ hate sports," Lance loudly refutes, and nudges Keith with an elbow, gesturing to the food. Keith shakes his head without even looking at him.

"No thanks," he says.

"I'm not trying to poison you," Lance offers, in a lower voice so that his eavesdropping coworkers (Matt) can't hear. "And I make mean _tostones_. Have you ever had them? Heaven."

"I'm not hungry," Keith grumbles, but he sighs. "I'm not sure you _wouldn't_ poison me, either." There's the hint of a smirk, maybe- _smartass_ , Lance realizes.

"Never mind," Lance huffs as he chews on a mouthful of Hunk's fabulous made-from-scratch fa'ausi, "You don't _deserve_ my twice-fried plantains."

Keith almost smiles. He looks amused, at the very least, and hesitantly allows Lance to hand him a tortilla chip laden with salsa.

"I invited some of the rookies tonight, by the way," Matt calls out from the floor where he's trying to set up his television speakers, a mess of wires tangled around his hands. "Play nice, Pidge."

"Not likely," Pidge replies, sliding into the seat next to Keith. "Keith Kogane, in the flesh. I heard that on your first day you disarmed ten Blade members in thirty minutes. Is that true?"

" _Pidge_!"

"It's just a question, Lance-"  
  
"Yeah, it's true." Keith stands up, crosses his arms, and looks over his shoulder towards Lance. "Can I talk to you outside?"

"Already in trou- _ble_ ," Matt singsongs (still eavesdropping). "You guys can talk in my room if you want. First door on the right in the hall. Just don't, like, fuck on my bed please."

"I'm going to kill you," Lance promises through gritted teeth as they pass Matt's seated figure, but he does take Matt's advice and leads Keith into Matt's room and wonders if he can destroy the plastic replica of some Star Wars ship in retaliation for Matt's treachery and calculates the best, most noiseless way to do so before Keith starts talking.

"How much do you know about me?"

Lance, who's been glaring at the ship, jumps and panics. "Uh, a little bit."

"McClain," Keith deadpans, sitting on the edge of Matt's bed, "Define 'a little bit'." The edge to his voice suggests he won't accept anything less the truth. Shit.

"Okay," Lance sighs in defeat with slumped shoulders, "I know a _lot_ about you."

Keith curls his hands, still clad in fingerless gloves, into his lap, crossing his ankles and staring intently at Lance with unbridled anger in his eyes, scowling away before he responds.

"Great," he bites out. "What do you know?"

"I-I'm sorry," Lance manages, fiddling with his fingers. "Voltron has an agency file for all of our partners. It's standard to run a background check on the people that we associate ourselves with-"

" _What_ do you know."

"Your father died when you were young, and your mother left you before that," Lance admits quietly, looking at the floor. He thinks about how he lorded this information over Keith the first day they met, having him at such a disadvantage. It feels worse now, maybe because he doesn't really want Keith to hate him anymore. "You grew up in foster care but you were mentored by a Takashi Shirogane, a faculty member at Garrison University before you dropped out at around the same time a missing person report was filed for Mr. Shirogane. That's-that's all I know."

Keith doesn't look at him. "And the others?"

"Pidge and- Pidge and Hunk have read your file without clearance, but it's just them." Lance takes a deep breath. "I know you don't have a reason to trust me, but I never meant for them to read it, and I can promise you that."

"Pidge is the short one?" Keith's clenched jaw is back. "Her information is outdated. There were twenty-six Blade members, and I only needed fifteen minutes." He stalks out of Matt's room, his arms stuck in his pockets, leaving Lance standing by the doorway relieved to hear the obnoxious tone of Keith's voice.

Lance rejoins the group in the living room just as Matt's speakers kick in, blaring a sport announcer's coverage of the basketball game's second quarter. Pidge and Matt are arguing with each other, someone's ringing the doorbell, Hunk is talking to Keith and piling pastries onto his paper plate, while Keith looks bewildered and Lance wonders if he should answer the door, which is not his responsibility, or save Keith from an earful about the wonders of confectioner's sugar, which does feel like his responsibility. He settles for the door first.

"McClain!" It's Ritzavi, the girl who shares a name with his niece. She's boisterous, bubbly, and she's been bonding with Pidge over obscure sci-fi video games for the past two weeks during their lunch breaks. Sometimes she talks so fast she doesn't notice her glasses are slipping off the bridge of her nose and when Lance looks at her he's reminded of her lenses splattered in gazpacho from that time they fell in her bowl. Otherwise, she's harmless if not overbearing.

"Nadia," Lance greets her with a half-hug as she shoves his shoulder in retaliation. "Nice of you to stop by, rookie." Trailing Nadia is Ryan Kinkade, a silent giant of an operative; he doesn't talk much but Lance spots him on the observatory deck sometimes, snapping pictures of the office garden. Kinkade raises a hand in greeting and gives a nod towards the room, but he holds the door open further so that the rest of the guests can filter in beside him. There's Ina, some technical prodigy who can't seem to read a room and spouts truths so matter-of-fact it's clear she doesn't mince words; she's holding a tray of what looks like unwashed kale, gross. Finally, the last one steps inside with a neutral smile, James Griffin. Lance doesn't know him well, but he's supposedly a good operative, one of their best up-and-coming as Allura says; it's good enough for a standard introduction.

The paper plate falls from Keith's hands.

"Five second rule!" Matt yells while Hunk is already on the floor gathering pastries in his hands with comically wide eyes, ranting on about them meeting an unfair and untimely fate on the dirty kitchen floor ("I mopped the floor, it's not dirty," Matt counters while Pidge interjects, "Spraying the floor with windex isn't fucking _mopping_ ," ) and Keith. Keith has a hatred in his eyes that Lance hasn't seen directed as someone so fiercely; paralleled by the tension in Lotor's office. But the glares, that Lance has come to expect only for himself and Galran criminals? They're boring into James Griffin's surprised face.

"What the fuck is Keith _Kogane_ doing here?" James demands, a humorless, mocking laugh following; he's sizing up Keith as the surprise melts into disdain. "I didn't know Voltron employees associate with jailbait."

"I kicked your ass when we were thirteen, I'll do it again, Griffin." Keith, sans plate, still with that dirty fucking glare Lance realizes might just be his default, already has his hands curled into combative fists. It's entirely possible that he will actually fight James, right now, in the Holt household, and Lance really can't have that happen; Allura would kill him and maybe Coran would kill him and wait, now he's thinking about how Allura is strangely absent. She usually attends their weekly get togethers.

"Woah, hold on here, we don't need to fight," Hunk, ever the peacemaker, laughs nervously, already stepping in between the two of them. Lance closes the door quickly and freezes, unsure if he should nip his own curiosity by asking questions or simply coming to Keith's defense.

"I'd like to see you try," James challenges, stalking towards Keith with a glint in his eyes. Lance makes the decision to intervene easily the second Keith's lip curls and those gloved hands are forming fists.

"Hey," Lance interjects, splaying out his hands so that there is at least three feet of space in between James and Keith, "Keith is a friend of mine. Back off."

Obligatorily, James does. Smartly, he doesn't question the validity of Lance's words and better still he doesn't make any more baiting comments, settling into the couch next to Ryan and Ina with a sneer on his mouth.

Lance looks to Keith, who won't meet his eyes. He's already reaching for the leather jacket thrown over the back of the chair, yanking it over his arms quickly, and Pidge is watching Keith prepare to leave with an odd, apologetic look that then morphs into a haughty glare towards James and raised eyebrows at Lance. It doesn't take a genius to understand what she's implying, and Lance gives her a quick nod in response.

"I'm sorry," Lance says, and grabs onto Keith's shoulder before he can walk towards the door and escape. "I didn't know Griffin was gonna be such a moron."

Keith looks at him then, stares, dark eyes stormy as he responds, "I'm calling it a night, McClain. Make sure you're at headquarters before lights out or you'll be stuck on the streets." He flips up his collar and turns to leave before Lance grabs his shoulder.

"Wait," Lance says, frowning, "You don't have to leave, I mean, you have every right to be here-"

"As your friend," Keith drolls, oh so sarcastically, with another almost-smile hovering on his lips.

" _Hey_ ," Lance stresses, mockingly indignant, clasping his hand to his chest, "Are we not _friends_?"

Keith has an actual smile on his face as he replies, "Nah."

"Asshole," Lance decides with no malice and Keith, Keith huffs out a small laugh, a sound that strikes Lance right through the heart and makes him flush.

"Thanks, McClain," Keith says, glancing over his shoulder, "It's been...interesting."

"Aw, c'mon, the night's young!" Lance gestures around the room, and luckily the others are so engrossed in their damn basketball game that they aren't paying attention to them (notably, Matt is not, because he's currently roping Nadia and James into a questionable drinking game where they guzzle tequila whenever they catch sight of the people mopping sweat onscreen). Hunk, on the other hand, is chatting with Ryan in the kitchen about the rehydration of yeast and Pidge and Ina are swapping information about some sort of tech thing, if the way Pidge has her face lit up is any indication. Lance feels a little silly, trying to convince Keith to stick around, but something about the way Keith looks so shaken after the interaction with James- he wants to keep him occupied and not with Blade things.

Keith seems to consider it before he shakes his head. "I've got something I need to do, anyway."

"Oh." Lance can't help being a little crestfallen, but he crosses his arms and gives Keith a tight-lipped smile. "If you have somewhere else to be, that's o-"

"Do you...want to come with me?"

 _Oh_.

"Yeah?" And Lance can't stop the wide grin that spreads across his face.

"If you're not busy," Keith adds, but Lance is already grabbing his phone off the table, zipping up his jacket, and cataloging how many of Hunk's cornbread rolls he can smuggle out of the apartment without everyone else complaining and/or Matt noticing that he's leaving with Keith.

Lance thinks that, _maybe_ , just maybe, it is possible that he has a tiny small minuscule baby crush on Keith.

(he's never going to admit that out loud, he decides right then and there)

 

 

* * *

 

  
The blood dripping from his mouth has pooled on the tile underneath, but the blood oozing from the wound on his head has congealed into a reddish-brown mass. Takashi Shirogane has been on the ground for almost fifteen minutes against all expectations and odds; the crowd is uneasy as the referee does nothing and Shiro's strength ebbs away, eyes lulling shut amidst jubilant cheers and derogatory cries.

The gloved hand grasps his jaw and yanks it upward, but Shiro keeps his eyes closed with fresh waves of pain shooting up his skull. _Unbearable_ , he thinks. Then, as an afterthought, _dying here is regrettable-what would Keith think?_

"Champion," the victor croons, "your reign has come to an end. Your life, on the other hand...well. Perhaps you can persuade me otherwise."

Shiro opens his eyes slowly just as his competitor is unmasked, his left hand peeling off a protective helmet and a sheet of pale hair cascading out and Shiro finds himself face to face with Zarkon's son Lotor, but he is not the least bit surprised. He has expected that his opponent would be worthy to take his long-held title of champion; albeit champion of a illegal underground fighting ring.

After all, it's not everyday Haggar shells out one hundred grand and instructs him to lose.

"Have you no tongue?" His accent is English. His smirk is predatory. Shiro can't for the life of him understand why he feels the need to taunt, to bait, to conquer. Shiro doesn't think he can respond even if he wanted to, not without spitting blood on the floor and he isn't stupid enough to do that. Lotor's smirk falters to show a tinge of annoyance when he recognizes that Shiro won't reply. "I see. Do you have anyone to vouch for you, Champion? Will you not even _attempt_ to reclaim your throne?"

"He has me."

This voice is new. Shiro wonders where the firm voice is coming from-British, as well, authoritative and female. He gets his answer when a woman steps into his line of vision; a tall woman with dark skin and white hair pulled into a bun atop her head with a jumpsuit that appears more appropriate for afternoon tea than the crowded basement of a nightclub.

Lotor's laugh is mocking. "Really, Champion? You'd have this waif of a girl fight in your steed?"

Shiro can take anything, but he can't expect the same of a stranger. He pulls himself out of Lotor's hold and manages to stand, hissing through his teeth as more pain jolts through what may be a dislocated shoulder and the blood loss makes him woozy. Nonetheless, he stares straight at Lotor, squares his shoulders, and tries his best to diffuse the situation.

"No. I'm not looking to fight you, and neither is she." Shiro glances at the woman out of the corner of his eye- she's in a power stance and she certainly looks like she'd fight Lotor without preamble. "You've won, fair and square."

"I must say, I expected more." Lotor sighs, but he takes a step back. "No matter, your undefeated record is now gone. And you, well, consider yourself lucky, Champion. I wouldn't dishonor your name in front of a lady." He gives a sweeping bow to Shiro's savior, and his smirk has given way to a charming, flirtatious smile. The woman, for her part, is unimpressed.

"Generous," she says, clipped. Her hand grasps onto Shiro's good shoulder, and she pulls him towards the edge of the ring. "If you'll excuse us, please." Shiro doesn't understand why, but he follows when she pushes through the crowd and doesn't question it when she pulls him into an abandoned closet full of cleaning supplies, rather, he sits on an overturned bucket and winces when his shoulder pulses in pain.

"Thank you," he manages to say, even as his bitten tongue feels swollen in his mouth. He isn't sure what he's thanking her for. Interjecting on his behalf, clearly recognizing that he can no longer fight? Being so concise? Giving Lotor such dirty looks? Maybe it's a combination of all three.

The woman has her ear to the door, and she pulls a small device out of her pocket that is shaped like an ordinary phone and is going haywire with beeping noises. Reaching into her pocket, she unearths what appears to be a credit card until she pushes a button and a strange blue light emits from it, the light scanning the entirety of the room before flashing red once it makes contact with an ordinary-looking bottle of floor cleaner. She picks up that bottle and crushes it, that phone device falling silent.

"There's no need to thank me." She sounds gracious, but the tone of her voice grows hard. "Are _all_ the fighters such wankers?"

"Uh- yeah," Shiro drawls, because that's obvious.

"Ridiculous," she huffs, and then she faces Shiro, concern evident in her eyes. He's never seen this woman before in his life, yet he strangely feels like he should trust her unequivocally and without question-perhaps it's the confidence in her stance or the fact that she attempted to fight a formidable opponent twice her size. "Should I get you to a hospital?"

"No. No hospitals." Shiro shifts uncomfortably on the bucket. "I'll be fine. I can patch myself up most of the time. Sorry, not that I don't appreciate the offer, but- who are you?"

The woman pauses, and surprisingly, she laughs. "Oh, I've forgotten my manners, per usual. I'm sorry- my name is Allura. And you must be Takashi Shirogane."

The name causes a ripple of alarm and Shiro jolts backward, almost overturning the bucket in his haste, mind going a mile a minute as the questions rush through his head- who is the woman, and why does she know his name, if he's been reported as a missing person for five years?

"I'm sorry," Allura is quick to add to her introduction, and her pale blue eyes emit such sincerity that Shiro's panicked expression wavers. "I didn't mean- well. I don't mean to alarm you. But...that _is_ your name, isn't it?"

Shiro swallows. She's right. The underground, they don't know him by his name, but some of the Galra do. "Yes. It's-that's not a secret. Plenty of people know who I am, just- not the authorities."

"I'm no authority." Allura seems to rethink her word choice and shrugs. "Well, I can't be arsed to turn you into the authorities, actually. I _am_ a government employee." She pauses as if that was the wrong thing to say and adds on, "Frankly, it's entirely possible that you won't believe me. But I try to avoid dishonesty in this profession whenever I can, and, I can give you my word."

She talks so eloquently in that transfixing accent that Shiro doesn't know if she's lying or not, despite the candor of her statements. He makes it a point not to trust anyone who claims the truth, anyway, and he's never been great at reading the room. Keith calls him gullible, sometimes. Shiro prefers to think that he simply likes to expect the best of people rather than the worst. It's optimism at its finest, and he can already picture Keith's exasperated eye roll as he thinks of it.

"I believe you," he says, and he does. "But, how do you know who I am?"

"I trust that you know of the Blade of Marmora?" Allura looks over her shoulder, at the closed door, and leans against it after she jimmies the lock shut. "One of their operatives has made your situation known to me."

It's Keith. Of course it is, because who else on the Blade cares enough to involve some form of government official? Shiro would always imagine himself a mentor, older brother type, figure to Keith; it's clear that he has disappointed him. This realization stings more than his fresh wounds and he inhales, shakily.

"Voltron would wish to help you," Allura continues, and from her jumpsuit pocket unearths a thin, flat business card, which is completely blank, and she presses it into Shiro's hands. The instant it comes in contact with his bloodied fingertips, shimmering iridescent text fills the card with a name and phone number. "Are you certain you don't need any medical attention, to start? The agency can supply you with a medic that is quite discreet, if-"

"Thank you, for this," Shiro starts, "But I can't accept your help without endangering the people I care about. I- I can't take this." He holds out the card, so that she can take it back, but Allura only presses her lips into a thin line and slides her hands into her pockets.

"Keith did tell me you'd be difficult," she says, a tinge of amusement in her words, with a patient smile. "Unfortunately, I won't accept your decision, Mr. Shirogane. Now, if there's no other qualms, I'd like for you to accompany me to my office."

The way she announces this tells him she won't accept a no for an answer, as she whirls around and beckons for him to follow, not once looking back to ensure that he's following, no, she knows that he will.

And she's right. He does.

 

* * *

 

Someplace Keith needs to be is a bar, apparently.

The cigarette smoke is the first sensory overload Lance is hit with as the stench seeps into his clothes quite regrettably, and then the ear-piercing electric guitar playing at decibels above a normal volume assaults his eardrums, the heavy rock music practically making the room vibrate. It's crowded, packed full of people weaving around a dance floor and filtering around the bar, the live band's lead singer beginning to screech into the microphone at the top of their lungs and Keith, Keith is looking back at Lance with a smirk and then, somehow, his gloved hand grasps onto Lance's wrist and pulls him further into the crowd, into a motley of patrons that Coran would describe as hooligans, Pidge would call emos, and his mother would term _satanistas_ before crossing herself vigorously.

None of the ambience makes him particularly excited, but, the firm grasp of Keith's hand has his mind racing in a way that has nothing to do with the rambunctious drum solo taking place onstage. Keith leads them to the bar, and unfortunately his hand is gone as he leans in close to a bartender that has at least six piercings on her face alone and gives drink orders Lance can't make out over the noise; the bartender has them served up with impressive agility and when his drink is presented, Lance laughs.

"A margarita, mullet?" Lance is yelling to be heard over the noise, swiping his finger over the salt crystals encrusting the rim of the glass, twirling the useless little black straw in the drink with mirth as he notices Keith has some gothic red-and-black cocktail infused with charcoal powder and too many maraschino cherries, and that Keith is gulping it down like it's water.

"Suits you," and Keith's face is too close to Lance's own, because he's not yelling to be heard over the music, no, he's bringing his mouth to Lance's ear and his breath is hot, smells like sugar and spirits and sandalwood cologne, the drink glass clasped in between two hands, decidedly not touching Lance and Lance wishes he would.

" _Real_ fucking funny," Lance fires back, and tongues the straw into his mouth without breaking eye contact, glad to see that Keith's eyes are appreciative. He takes that time to lean closer to Keith and loudly announce in his ear, "Joke's on you, I'm secure in my masculinity _and_ my ability to drink tequila."

Keith honest to God _laughs_ \- he can't be drunk, can he?- and sets down the glass, crossing his arms to survey Lance up and down, and yeah, this time, they are _eyes_ eyes, not judgmental and one hundred percent flirty if Lance were to wager, so he sucks up the last of the margarita and licks the salt rim for the fun of it, before he deposits the glass by its stem onto the bar and pulls Keith to the dance floor. 

Lance wishes that the bar was playing something, _anything_ , else. Heavy rock that borders on metalcore is not his forte, especially not sung by some mediocre band with a lead singer that warbles out an AC/DC cover on strained vocal cords. He wishes he were enveloped in some reggeatón, the kind of infectious beats that would encourage sultry hip movements, but he finds himself in some form of faulty mosh pit of bouncing bodies all too eager to headbang and scream along to lyrics that Lance is sure can't be universally known, but Keith has his eyes closed and his long hair is falling over his forehead, his jacket has been shed somewhere between the bar and the dance floor and the music seems to have a calming effect despite the volume and rough quality of the singer's voice. Lance wonders, as he bangs his head to a particularly high note, if this is where Keith comes to unwind after a long day with the Blade. It's laughable that a noisy, overcrowded bar could be someone's safe haven, but the way Keith looks right now, Lance has no doubt in his mind that this place is special to him, and preens to have been invited along, and lets it go to his head _instantly_.

Keith drinks at least three of those gothic cocktails in a row and Lance learns that they're dubbed _vampire kiss_ by the bartender and that the charcoal powder stains Keith's tongue black and Lance taps out after the one drink with worry about who'll drive them home, and sour, grim-faced Keith looks like he's having _fun_ , so much so that Lance doesn't regret leaving behind the weekly Voltron gathering to hang out in a smoky underground rock n' roll themed bar, though he momentarily has second thoughts once the lead singer of the band pitifully yowls a heinous rendition of some Metallica song. Somewhere in between that Metallica song and an experimental heavy metal play on "Highway To Hell," Lance notices that two people have clung close to their spot by the stage, and that the girl, a tall and stunning blonde, has just draped her arms around Keith's neck and is now murmuring into his ear as her companion watches, beer can in his hand and Lance's jealousy hits him first before the anger; the anger that rises quickly as Keith's posture grows rigid and the elated color in his cheeks has faded.

Lance makes the impromptu decision to cut in, sidling up to the girl and tapping her shoulder. The instant she turns around to face him, Keith is out of her grasp and Lance has protectively pulled him away from the two and the unknown man has begun to smirk, and Lance can't tell if he's amused at the possessiveness or the fact that the girl is exaggeratedly pouting, and saying _something_ , but of course Lance can't hear her at all yet Keith must, because he's frowning and already pushing his way through the crowd and all Lance can do is follow before the crowd can swallow him.

There's a back door that leads to a designated yet clearly underused smoking area that lacks cigarette smoke and smells of the crisp night air, but the empty picnic table proves to be a blessing as Keith stumbles onto a plastic chair and Lance follows, concerned.

"You know a lot of shit people," Lance observes and sits next to him, on top of the table, playfully but also probing. "Griffin, whoever that girl was, all of those Galra..."

Keith doesn't appear to hear Lance, at first. He's looking straight ahead with a pensive look in his eyes and after a beat of silence, shakes himself out of it. "Yeah," Keith says, softly, before he sighs. "Sorry. I wanted to get my mind off things and I'm running into them."

"So." Lance looks up at the sky, and thinks that the stars are nothing compared to the brightness of Keith Kogane's eyes. "Do you want to talk about it? Not because I want to be nosy. Actually, I really want to know the backstory about James. I kinda wanted you to kick his ass."

Keith scoffs, and ducks his head, possibly so that Lance can't see the mirth in his smile. "It's not a backstory. We went to the same middle school, and- he just made some offhand comment about Shiro and my parents. I punched him in the face."

Lance sucks his teeth. "Honestly, I'd do the same thing."

"Maybe you wouldn't." Keith's expression is pensive as he leans forward and doesn't look Lance in the eye. "I didn't have anyone except Shiro, then. I don't think you know what that's like."

Lance thinks of his parents. Of his mother, who'd fry him _tostones_ in the afternoons after soccer practice and his dad, who would let him have a puff or two of his cigar when his abuela was none the wiser and his abuela who would pour him cups of café and sew his torn jeans while they'd watch episodes of _Sabado Gigante_ on the bulky television. Not to mention his siblings- Marco, who taught Lance chord progressions on the guitar and Luis, who would bring over the kids and Lisa with _pastelitos_ and Veronica who would coax Lance into dancing to Celia Cruz records and Rachel, who would recite her poetry to nobody but Lance and the cat. No, he doesn't know what it's like. He hopes he never will.

"It must have been hard for you," Lance says, and his voice is apologetic, maybe pitying. "When Shiro went missing."

Keith hums, tilts his head back, and sighs. "You're a government employee, right?"

"Last I checked." 

"Shiro's not missing. I...found him, a few years ago. _Officially_ , he's still missing." Keith rubs at his nose, shivering, as it seems to strike him that his jacket is nowhere to be found and the alcohol to keep him warm is inside at the bar. "He's part of an illegal fight ring run by the Galra, and he hasn't been able to leave. The Galra, they- they've been threatening to go after Shiro's ex-boyfriend Adam if he goes to the police. So he's working for them."

"Shit." This information is absolutely something Allura would want to know, and Lance frowns. "Why didn't you say anything? We could get him some protection, or bust in on this fight ring, that's the kind of thing Voltron _does_."

Keith laughs, bitterly. "No offense," he replies in the manner of a person who will absolutely say something offensive, "But I wasn't sure I could trust you. And if the Galra lose their fight ring, they'll know it's an inside job. The Blade isn't ready for that kind of fallout."

Lance's heart skips a beat at that first sentence, at the past-tense usage of _wasn't_. "Do you trust me now?" he asks, waiting on the verbal confirmation.

Keith surveys Lance slowly, carefully, and inhales. "Stupidly, yes," he admits.

"Wha-hold on, _stupidly_?"

"You tried to put down the window in a car chase, McClain."

"That is _not_ common sense, I don't care how the Blade trains their members-"

Keith's laughter could cure a myriad of diseases, Lance decides, as he hears it ring out clear and true into the night. Keith stands up, and stretches his arms above his head, and Lance hops off the table to join him in a way that is absolutely not eager.

"I left my jacket inside," Keith says, but he frowns. "I don't want to run into Nyma and Rolo again, though."

"Nyma and Rolo-"

"The two people inside, trying to talk to me." Keith pauses, almost unsure if he should keep talking, before he does. "They're not Galra. Just some run-of-the-mill junkies that'll do anything for a quick buck. Sendak will hire them sometimes when our guys need to go under the radar."  
  
Lance thinks of the two of them, the ones from the car. He can't remember their features amongst the masses other than a leggy blonde and a dude with a crooked grin, but the jacket he does remember, the expensive-looking leather easily trampled on the dirty floor.

"I'll go get your jacket," Lance offers. "I'll be back in two minutes flat, mullet!"

Without waiting for a response Lance darts back inside the back door, to be enveloped in the noise and smell of the crowded bar again before he surveys the crowded dance floor, eyes on the ground as if he might find the jacket there, hoping it hasn't already been mangled in beer and dirt from the soles of combat boots, but it's too much to ask that the universe be on his side, because the singer leads the crowd into an electrifying song full of guitar solos and heavy drums he doesn't recognize and then an impromptu mosh pit forms itself almost _immediately_...around Lance.

A slim hand slips over Lance's palm and tugs him out of the crossfire, away from the jostling circle to safety atop a barstool.  
  
Lance, without the panic arising in his stomach, feels the relief wash over him instantly. "Thank yo-"

It's the junkie Keith was talking about. Nyma preens at Lance with a sweet smile and shimmery purple lipgloss and flips a handful of blonde hair over her shoulder before she leans close to Lance's ear, hands resting on his chest, devious glint in her eye.

"Oh, Kogane likes _you_ ," Nyma purrs and Lance doesn't have the chance to ask her what she means, because everything goes black.


End file.
